


Reap What You Sow

by honeybeesandappletrees



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: (for now) - Freeform, (i guess), Elements of Body Horror, Graphic Description of Wounds, Light Angst, Multi, POV Second Person, Slice of Life, Worldbuilding, no beta we die like men, taking a headcanon and running a marathon with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2019-11-15 07:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybeesandappletrees/pseuds/honeybeesandappletrees
Summary: you're a farmer.  just a farmer, with a small piece of land, living your quiet, content life.  you sell produce and goods to Master Attendants and that's enough for you.you're just a farmer.that's what you tell yourself.





	1. that soft dawning morning

The mug of coffee is halfway to your mouth when you notice that Mayra is shaking her head at you. You pause. She flicks her sharp amber eyes towards Jacoby and back to your cup, but her hands never stop moving, nimble fingers buckling up her work boots. You lean forward and smell the coffee. It smells perfectly fine. You take a small sip. 

The bitterness springs to life on your tongue instantly, full bodied and tasting deeply burnt. You stare down into the mug before glancing over to the coffee pot. It’s nestled on the warmer, and it’s completely full. “Dammit,” you murmur to yourself. Mayra makes a noise that could be a snort. You slant your eyes towards her and she raises a shoulder in response. ‘Warned you’ she mouths. The corners of her full lips are twitching upward even as she tries to contain her smile. You sigh as she gets to her feet, slipping on her jacket and tucking her long braid into the collar of the fur ruff. You glance back at the mug in your hands before depositing it onto the wooden kitchen table. You’re forgetful enough about these things that you could take another sip without realizing and frankly, that coffee doesn’t belong anywhere near your mouth.

“Jac,” you say. The man - honestly, though, he’s really more of a human mountain, so tall he has to duck down beneath the door jambs of almost every room he walks into - hums in quiet acknowledgement from his place at the giant kitchen counter. You step up beside him. He’s working a dough, large hands delicately folding the layer of dough over the slab of butter placed in the center of it. “Maybe leave the coffee making to me or Mayra,” you say. You’re already mulling over whether or not you can make it to the cafe and back in time to keep to your schedule. You’re up earlier than normal anyway, so you would probably be okay.

Jac’s hands pause as he lightly flours a rolling pin. “Okay,” he mutters, knuckles going white against the wood of the thick pin. “Sorry.” He grumbles something under his breath, though, and while you can't quite hear him, you get the gist of his irritation. If he hadn't been working the dough - you might have timed that intentionally - he'd probably be flicking at you with kitchen towel draped over one large shoulder.

You lean over to brush a lock of his thick, wavy bangs behind one of his ears. There’s already flour streaked in his hair. “Maybe Clem will teach you,” you offer. You know she'd be delighted by the prospect. In part because most people have stopped listening to her when she talks about the coffee making process. 

The tips of Jac’s ears flush darker with blood. You bite down on the laugh threatening to spill from your lips as he comes down with the rolling pin into the dough harder than he needs to. A quiet curse spills from him. “Careful.”

He grumbles quietly. You’re already looking away from him to stare at the pot of coffee. It’s almost taunting at this point. “Just pour it out,” he says.

“Feels bad to pour out coffee.”

He raises a brow. “You’d rather drink it?”

“Good point.” Behind you, the quick clack of the rolling pin handles indicate that Jac has gone back to his laminated dough. Probably a good thing. He was grumpy for the entire day the last time you distracted him and the butter got too soft.

You sigh to yourself and grab the pot of coffee to dump it down the sink. It pours out and sends up a plume of steam as it hits the cold metal of the sink. It smells delicious. You have to go to the cafe, you decide. Everything will survive if you’re a little late.

“Want me to ask Clem?” you ask as you move back to the kitchen table to grab your ill fated mug and pour it out as well.

“S-sure.”

You smile to yourself. “Great. Back in a bit.”

Jac mutters something to himself. From the bit you hear, it sounds like he’s keeping count of the turn he’s on for the dough. “Bye to you too,” you mumble, making your way to the hall. It only takes you a moment to slip on your shoes and your jacket. You wind a scarf around your neck for good measure. Spring is well on it’s way, but winter still has some tendrils hooked into the early hours.

As you suspected, it’s a chill morning. The frost is almost too light to be called that, but it still gleams in the light from your porch lamp. You step into the pathway and make your way down the road. 

You make your way down the path. You pick your steps carefully, using the light of the quickly setting moon to guide you. A few branches crack here and there in the woods behind you, but it’s been months since a Fallen has wandered this close to even the outskirts of your town. Still, you find that your feet are moving just a bit faster.

By the time you make it to the cafe, the distant horizon is just starting to glow. The sun won’t be long now, and soon there will be wisps of steam rising off the wet of the morning, almost enough to create a soft bank of fog.

You step into the cafe and let the warm, coffee-scented air roll over you. “Morning,” you say to Gin, raising an eyebrow. “Where’s Clem?”

“Nice to see you too,” he says. He’s clearly wide awake - you’re actually pretty sure that he and the other cafe workers are the earliest risers in town - and the smirk he shoots your way quickly fades away into his sunbeam smile.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Jac make the coffee this morning?”

“Unfortunately,” you grumble, stepping closer to the counter. 

“Usual?” he asks.

“Please.”

It only takes him a minute to pull your coffee together. It’s always been an easy, fast order, so you perch yourself on one of the stools at the counter. Gin holds up both a mug and a paper to go cup. You peer back towards the cafe’s glass storefront to see that tendrils of light are spreading across the bits of the horizon that you can just make out. Gin huffs, but waits. You nod towards the ceramic mug and he pulls away again to finish up your order. You lean your chin on your hand. “So, are you gonna tell me where Clem is?”

“Figured she should get to sleep in for once,” Gin says. He slides your coffee to you; you catch the mug with only a slight spill. Gin’s already wiping it up.

You almost immediately burn the roof of your mouth on the first sip. It’s worth it, though. The coffee at home isn’t bad, per se, but Gin’s worked hard to make his coffee an experience. Hiring Clem just made that experience all the better. 

“I guess she deserves that,” you murmur. When you do shuffle further into town to get coffee - rarer and rarer these days, as there are less and less farmers and the cafe pushes their opening hours back in small increments - Clem’s always the one at the counter. “I think Jac’s gonna ask her to teach him how to make coffee.”

Gin barks out a laugh. “That poor boy couldn’t make a good cup of coffee even if the Food Soul himself taught him.”

“Mean,” you say, but you’re smiling. 

“Speaking of Food Souls, did I hear Master Attendant Honey is stopping by today?”

You nod. There’s a headache, slight but with the type of thrumming that promises the pain will grow, starting to throb near your right temple. “I think so. The leeks came a bit early this year and I need to get rid of them. And Mayra’s been bringing milk home from the ranch. I’ve got a few batches of cheese running, along with some butter. She might want something else, too, so I’ve got all my early spring harvests set up, but it’s still early enough that there’s not too much yet.”

“Long way to come for just the early spring harvest.” Gin’s made himself a coffee and has settled on the other side of the counter, leaning in to rest against the cool stone. 

You shrug. “Master Attendants are like that, sometimes,” you say.

“True.”

Behind you, the door chimes as someone else steps in. You and Gin turn as one. “Morning, Hess,” Gin says. You give her a small wave as she unwinds her scarf from around her neck and slings it over one well-muscled arm. 

“Mornin’,” she replies, wiping some small droplets of water from where they are beading on her pale eyelashes. “You’re here late.”

You peer past her to see the sky. “Not late yet, but heading there,” you say. She flashes you a lightning quick smile. 

“Wasn’t a criticism.”

“Didn’t think it was.” You take another sip of your coffee. “Gin?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. Usual, Hess?”

“Please,” she says, plopping down on the stool next to you.

You press a hand against your temple as Gin drops something, the metal clanging and sending a sharp spike of pain through you. You let your eyes close for a minute. When you open them, Hess is looking at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. But it flits away quickly and her smile flourishes again. 

Gin drops a mug in front of her. She thanks him quietly as he turns to you and starts to pour your half-drunk mug into a paper cup. He tops it off without you asking, sending you a wink as he does.

“Thanks,” you say, handing him more than enough gold. He takes it easily, having long given up on arguing with you through the years. You start to stand.

“Master Attendant Honey’s coming today, right?” Hess asks.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Tell her I have some new planks and screws available if she wants.”

“Will do, Hess.” You pick up your coffee cup, letting the heat leaking through the thin cardboard warm your hands. “See you later.”

“Bye,” she and Gin say in tandem.

You head out the door and into the dawning morning.

* * *

Master Attendant Honey does come.

As usual, she manages to show up at the exact inopportune moment. When she calls your name, you’re deep in the midst of working. You haven’t noticed her at all, and the sudden whip of her voice - she truly is one of the loudest people you’ve ever met - jolts you.

Naturally, the bucket next to you gets knocked over. You’re not quick enough, and you curse under your breath as the full bucket of water sluices over the row of seeds you’ve just pressed into the dirt. Many of the seeds get swept out of place. You glance at them for a second, but you can already hear Honey coming up behind you.

“So sorry, so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says, fluttering anxiously behind you. Your head throbs.

You sit back on your heels and wipe away some of the sweat beading on your forehead. You can feel the dirt smear across your skin. “It’s fine, Master Attendant.”

“Can I help you fix it?”

You can’t help the warm smile blossoming on your lips. “No, Master Attendant.”

“You only call me that when you're annoyed with me,” she points out. "Please let me help."

"It's fine, Honey," you say. You turn the bucket upright again and start to get to your feet. A hand appears in your line of vision, small and calloused. You glance up at Black Tea, Master Attendant Honey’s ever present Food Soul. You take her hand and she hauls you up with what looks like zero effort. Your head pulses again.

“Thanks, Black Tea,” you say, letting go of her hand as soon as you’re upright. 

“Of course,” she replies. 

You turn around to see Honey beaming at you. She’s as tiny as you remember her to be, sunshine all packed up into her small frame. She immediately starts rattling off produce questions.

The humming buzz of your headache starts to blossom into a drumbeat. 

“Master Attendant,” Black Tea says. She’s somehow both respectful and reprimanding in the same instant.

Honey wilts, just slightly, and cuts off her questioning.

“Sorry,” you say. “Just give me a moment. Why don’t you head to the back porch? Most of the harvest is out there. You can look it over and I’ll be there in a few to answer any questions.”

“Sure!” Honey chirps. “Sounds good!”

She darts off towards the large porch. You just shake your head. The wince you can’t quite contain at the movement must be more obvious than you thought, because Black Tea pauses in her effort to follow her Master Attendant.

“You are still unwell?” she asks.

“It’s nothing,” you say. “Just the headaches again. I’ll be fine.”

Her brow furrows. “How long have you had them?”

You pause in the middle of picking out a few of the seeds that have been washed out of their proper place. “Years,” you say carefully. She’s never shown this much interest in you before. She’s polite enough, and seems kind despite her intensity and the seriousness that never quite leaves her features, but she’s always paid more attention to her Master Attendant, barring those times where you’re answering a particularly complicated question.

“Hmm.”

You think that’s all, so you lean down to pluck a few more seeds. You’re just starting to realize that you’re going to need to come back out here after Honey leaves to check on the whole row when Black Tea steps closer to you.

“They’re worse when I’m here.”

You blink and turn towards her. “Excuse me?”

“The headaches,” she says. She turns her gaze back to you as Honey finally makes it to the porch in the distance, perhaps feeling more comfortable to know that Honey is close to the easily defensible farmhouse. Your head is thrumming now, sharp lightning bolts of pain digging across your skull.

“I-” 

“They are, aren’t they?”

You are tempted to lie. In fact, you can feel the lie slithering up your throat to spill from your lips. But the sensation dies away as Black Tea pins you in place with her gaze.

“Yes.”

“With other Food Souls, as well.” It’s not a question - you know it isn’t, you can see it in her eyes - but you nod anyway. Her gaze makes you feel small. 

“What you are doing is unkind at best,” she says softly. 

You swallow.

She watches you for a moment more. From the porch, Honey calls out her name. She turns her gaze towards her Master Attendant and for a moment, her serious features soften. You grit your teeth and your headache spikes again.

Black Tea looks at you. “If I have noticed, others will as well.”

You look away, your fingers tightening on the handle of the bucket. The wet seeds you’ve collected are slimy in the palm of your hand, their hard shells cool against your heated skin.

Honey calls out Black Tea’s name once more.

She starts back to the porch. You follow after a moment. The bucket’s handle is cutting into your hand; you let it fall to the ground with a clang. You can come back for it later.

You reach the porch not long after Black Tea. She has settled next to her Master Attendant’s side, but her gaze returns to you often as Honey chatters away. You answer her questions about your produce to the best of your ability, but it’s difficult to concentrate with Black Tea’s eyes on you. It's easier when Honey slides into gossip about some other Master Attendants - she learned a while ago that you keep one ear open for such things - but even her easy chatter makes you wince.

The headache is roaring now, an ocean wave of pain crashing against your temple. Your fingers curl around some rhubarb stalks.

“Are you alright?” 

You blink and glance down at Honey. She’s frowning, deep furrows in her brow as she examines you.

“Just one of my headaches,” you say. “Tell me more about the new dish you want to try and I can make some recommendations.”

Honey and Black Tea linger. They often do - Honey is insatiably curious and has always been interested in your crops, more so than any other Master Attendant you’ve sold to. Normally, you don’t mind. Honey is a strange brand of Master Attendant, both serious and not, and you like her and her easy humor and her sweet smile. But today, the headache is relentless.

Maybe Honey notices. Maybe Black Tea hints at it to her Master Attendant. Either way, Honey leaves earlier than she usually does, her pannier bags filled with produce and a few select cheeses. She promises they’ll return in a month or so, when the spring harvest is truly peaking. Knowing her, you'll receive a few calls in the meantime, both questions about the farm and musing about new recipes she wants input on.

As they’re leaving, Black Tea stops by your side again. “Please consider it,” she says, soft and low enough that Honey doesn’t hear from where she’s prepping her bike. “It’s not just you that’s in pain.”

You swallow against your suddenly parched throat, feeling the heat of shame sliding over the nape of your neck.

Before you can say anything, Honey pops back up and bides you a cheerful farewell. Her brows are still slightly furrowed, and you can only hope that Black Tea doesn’t share her knowledge with her Master Attendant. You assume you will not be that lucky.

You wait on the front porch until Honey starts up the bike. You wave them off - Honey returns the gesture enthusiastically and Black Tea grabs the handlebars to keep the bike steady - and only go inside when even the dust cloud from the bike is no longer visible.

Jac mumbles a bleary greeting from his place on the sofa, his eyes at half mast. You consider a nap yourself, and trudge your way into your bed, keeping the blinds cracked so you don’t sleep for hours.

Your head pounds, and pounds, and pounds.

You turn onto your side and curl up against the pain. 

You know it’s unkind, perhaps even cruel. Master Attendants have spoken so much on the topic that you had known what it was the first instant you felt the tug at the back of your brain a few years ago, like a calling, like a compass pulled to magnetic north. As time passed, the calling had intensified, melted into headaches that steadily grew stronger, more painful, that you endured through gritted teeth.

You know there’s a Food Soul waiting for you to summon them.

They've been waiting a long time. They're relentless, holding on to their call for you. They're patient.

But so are you, and you intend to outlast them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanna say i can't believe i wrote what is essentially a 3k prologue and YET here we are and this could have been longer yikes @ self
> 
> so as far as I'm aware there's very little summoning lore, but i was thinking about it and what if master attendants felt it? something like a calling, a connection, even before they've summoned a Food Soul. and then, what if you felt it and you didn't want it? what if you were content with your life? what if this new being changed everything? what if you are afraid to let someone in that far, to have that kind of connection?
> 
> and thus - this.
> 
> if you read this big long introduction (it...got away from me a bit), and are still interested, you're a brave soul lol. i would also be really curious to see who people think would be the Food Soul calling to this character. i have a few in mind but would love to hear thoughts on it!
> 
> also i thought it would be really interesting to spend some time with a character who isn't a MA/struggles with the idea of being a MA
> 
> tumblr is alandofhoneyedfruits


	2. those laughing dances

You’ve been staring at the airship’s manifest for too long.

The individual words on the page have lost all meaning - why doesn’t anyone talk about rhubarb, how is that a word - and you drag your gaze away. From what you can see from the window, dusk is settling like a blanket over the farm, a soft, deep purple dotted with stars winking to life. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes. The pressure somehow makes the headache stronger and softer at the same time, the pulsing heartbeat of pain settling just behind your right eye.

You let your head drop to the table with a quiet thunk.

Unsurprisingly, the impact does not help your headache.

“Should I ask?”

“No,” you grumble, hauling yourself upright once more as Mayra pads into the kitchen. She’s halfway through undoing her braid, her long hair falling into unruly waves. There’s several small pieces of straw gleaming bright against her dark mass of hair. You decide she probably knows about it. 

She makes her way to the stove, scooping up one of the bowls you’ve left out for her and Jac. 

“Not that one,” you say as she starts to lift the lid on the pot on the right burner. You’re slumped slightly, letting your hand take the weight of your heavy head. Mayra’s hand flexes on the stout handle of the wooden ladle. “Soup’s on the left.”

She puts the pot lid back into place gently. She’s much less gentle when she pulls the lid of the soup pot off. There’s a billow of steam that comes up when she opens it. 

“Can you turn the heat on that down?” you ask. “Thought I had it on a simmer.”

“It’s definitely not at a simmer.” She flicks the burner knob before bending down slightly to make sure she hasn’t put the flame entirely out. “What kind of cheese, by the way?” 

“Just mozzarella. Waiting to cut the curds.”

“Airship?”

“Mostly,” you say. 

Mayra hums in acknowledgement. “Burrata for us?”

“Get me some duck eggs and I’ll consider it,” you say, watching her ladle out a generous helping of soup. You’d worked with Jac to try and find the best ingredients to match with his fastidious dumplings. He’s gotten better at the pinch braid. Even swollen with absorbed broth, the pattern holds up. You can see it even from your position at the dining room table.

Mayra doesn’t seem to notice.

She meanders over to the table, slumping down in the seat next to you. You pull the manifest back with a grimace as a bit of broth slops on to the table. Mayra wipes the spill clean with a nearby napkin before reaching out and plucking the paper from your hand.

You give her a moment to scan the manifest. She reads it with furrowed brows, almost mechanically eating her soup as her eyes dart across the paper. There’s a jab of pain again, lighting sharp behind your eye. You scrub a hand over your face and lean back in your chair. Closing your eyes against the pain helps for just a handful of seconds.

“This is a lot of produce for this time of year,” Mayra says, dropping her spoon into her bowl to flip to the next page of the log. 

“I know.”

She whistles under her breath at the third page. “There’s no way the ranches can produce that much in this time span. I think Heritage can scrape together enough for our particular share, but as a whole?”

“I know,” you repeat. “Gold Tree might push enough to fill the order, though. I think Honey said that they were having a good year.”

Mayra huffs. “Still.”

“I think the airship has someone new in port,” you say, taking back the manifest and scanning it over once more. The totals that your farm needs to supply to receive full payment are decently within your reach. You’ll have to pick a few hothouse vegetables early - they never taste quite as good as in-season - but they’ll be close enough to ready that only the most discerning Master Attendants will ignore them. 

But the rest of the numbers are almost staggering. You’ve filled plenty of airship orders in your time, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen a farm-wide total this high. “Something must be happening,” you muse.

“Nobles, probably.” Mayra stirs her spoon around in her soup, her dark eyes gazing into the distance, her brows still knitted together.

You shrug.

“I think there’s a MA in town.”

You blink and look up from the manifest once more. “It’s only been a few weeks. It’s a bit early for Honey to be back.”

Mayra rolls her eyes. “Honey isn’t the only MA, you know.”

“She’s the only one who actually comes all the way out here with any regularity.”

“‘All the way out here’? We’re forty minutes from the city. And it’s not Honey. Odette sounded too excited for it to be anyone we know.”

You purse your lips. “Well,” you say, getting to your feet. “I suppose it was about time they filled the pop-up.”

“Try not to be mean to this one.”

“I wasn’t mean!”

Mayra raises an eyebrow.

You sigh and pin the manifest to the corkboard over the kitchen sink next to the other pending orders. “If this MA doesn’t call my produce shitty, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I worry anyway,” Mayra says crisply, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “But I’ll ask Clem tomorrow. If she hasn’t seen them yet, she’ll probably at least have seen their Soul. Or Souls, I suppose.”

The pain behind your eye spikes again. You wince and reach for a nearby dish towel, flicking on the faucet and starting to wet the cloth.

“Where’s Jac?”

You wring out the towel, the water running over your hands in cool, comforting rivulets. “He’s with Hess,” you say, laying out the towel and folding it over to make a compress. “She wants to learn to make babka for Ari’s birthday, I think.”

Mayra whistles softly. “That’s gotta be a sight to see.”

“Mmhmm.”

The timer goes off with a quiet ding. For a moment, you can’t remember what it’s for, but then your gaze shifts to the second pot on the stove. You glance down at the compress in your hand with a sigh. The cloth makes an unattractive noise as it lands on the kitchen counter. You reach for the timer, a small, battered mushroom house shaped trinket that’s been in the kitchen for as long as you can remember. 

Mayra gets there first. She flicks it off and slides it back across the counter to its usual spot. “Go up and rest your eyes before bed,” she says. “I’ll cut the curds and finish up the mozzarella.”

“It’s a big batch to do alone.” You press your thumbs against your temples and rub. The headache recedes as you press down harder, but you know it’s just temporary. 

“You were going to do it alone.”

“I do this a lot more than you do,” you point out as she pulls the lid off of the stock pot you’ve been letting the curds set in. She rolls her eyes and hooks a few fingers into the handle of the drawer next to the stove, rustling through it before pulling out the curd knife. She slides the blade into the gel-like curds near the top of the pot and drags it through carefully.

“There’s nothing wrong with needing rest,” she says, keeping her dark eyes on the pot as she slips the knife back in again, making a second horizontal line. “Go.”

“You need more room between the slices.”

“Oh, now you can really go, if you’re going to be a control freak.”

You’re considering prolonging the argument - you are the more experienced cheesemaker and the idea of redoing this whole batch for the airship if Mayra’s unsuccessful makes you grit your teeth - but she glances at you over her shoulder and you realize she knows.

This particular headache has dogged you all day, curbing your ability to work in the fields and spiking when you least expect it. The worst of it had been when you were squatting in the small field closest to the road. You’d just heard the squeak of approaching wagon wheels when the pain flared like a wildfire, so agonizing, so searing, and so unexpected that you’d actually cried out. When the wagon came to a quick stop, someone calling out to you in concern, you’d kept your heated face turned down under your sunhat and waved them on.

But the first place the wagon would have gone is to one of the ranches, either Heritage or Redwall, but it didn’t really matter. Either way, someone would have whispered into enough ears about your little roadside moment to ensure it reached Mayra.

All of the fight leaches out of you. 

“Do half of the batch with the smoked salt water,” you say.

Mayra nods, putting down the curd knife and stepping away from the pot to tie her hair back up. She flicks off the flame below the soup pot.

You grab the compress once more, turning on the sink and running the cloth under the cool water to refresh it. Mayra bids you a quiet good night, her eyes back on the curds and the careful line she’s cutting into it.

The throbbing of your headache starts to settle as you trudge into the dark hallway. Your eyes adjust quickly to the dimly lit space, so you leave the lights off, moving steadily in the darkness.

Your bed is soft and welcoming as you all but fall into it. For a moment, you just lay there, your comforter warming quickly under your body heat. The compress is spreading a damp spot on your sheets, though, so you wiggle out of your clothes and crawl up the bed, reaching down to pick up the night clothes you’d left on the floor in your rush this morning. 

Finally, you lie back and spread the compress over your eyes. The wet cloth feels almost icy against your skin, and the cool of it spreads across your brow bone. It’s like a soothing sea. The numbing sensation crawls across your skin, settling over the thrumming pulse of pain.

Slowly, the pain disintegrates beneath the compress. It’ll last long enough that you can slip into sleep.

But you know it will be back in the morning.

* * *

You step into the cafe and shut the door softly behind you.

Clem looks up from behind the counter at the sound of the bell. “Mornin’,” she calls, her smoky voice ringing out clear in the quiet space.

“Morning,” you say, sliding off your jacket and hanging it on the coat rack.

“Oh, wow,” Clem says, raising one dark brow. “Jacket off - you’re actually staying for a while?”

“Been known to do that.” You straddle one of the stools in front of the counter.

Clem’s hands are already moving, nimbly skipping from cup to cup until she locates your favorite mug. It’s old, and chipped, but she keeps it on hand for you, even though you both know it should probably get thrown out. 

You heft the basket you’ve been carrying up onto the stool next to you. “For you, madam,” you intone, pulling back the cloth to display the baked goods she’d ordered from Jac. 

Clem puts down the mug to lean over the counter, her tight, dark curls bouncing. “There’s extra.” The smile blooms across her face like the rising sun, warm and bright.

“There always is,” you point out, a smile tugging at your own lips. She bites at her bottom lip with a small laugh. You put the basket on the counter. Clem leans back once more, grabbing the basket and storing it under the counter. She picks up your mug with steady, practiced hands and twirls it as she waits for your order to finish brewing.

“He baking for the airship too?”

You nod. “Yeah. Big order this time around.”

Clem purses her lips, pouring your drink into the mint green mug before sliding it over to you. “Might be a festival in Hilena.”

You shrug. “We can fill it. That’s all I care about.”

“Liar.”

You roll your eyes and raise the mug to your lips, taking a careful sip of the piping hot liquid. 

Clem wipes down her coffee press with a cloth. “Go ahead and ask,” she says, the little laugh ringing like a clear bell. “Everyone is.”

“New Master Attendant?”

“New Master Attendant,” she confirms. “About time they reopened the pop-up. I know we’ve been fine so far, but it only takes once.”

“That’s why we’re low on the Guild’s list for the pop-ups,” you point out. “They can generally get away with it. And we’re not too far from the city, I suppose.”

“We’re the ones who’ll suffer the one time they’re wrong, though. And we’re far enough that even getting word to the city would take too long.”

You shrug and take another sip of your coffee before stretching your arms above your head to get the kinks out of your back. “Tell it to the Guild. I doubt they’ll listen.”

Clem snorts and scrubs harder at the pristine counter. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You were saying something about the new Master Attendant?” you ask in an attempt to redirect. “What’s your first impression?”

Clem waves to someone behind you as the bell above the cafe’s door tinkles. “Haven’t met him yet,” she says. “It sounds like they were pretty tired from the journey. Only one Soul with him, though, from what I’ve heard.”

“Make sense,” Hess says as she settles on the stool to your left. “Morning,” she adds on. You raise an eyebrow. “They didn’t come from Parisel.” 

Your brow furrows. “That’s unusual.”

“Mhmm.” Hess takes the mug of black coffee from Clem with a muttered sound of thanks. Her big, scarred hands wrap around it. She makes the mug look more like a dainty teacup. “Of course, it’s Odette who said that, so take it with a grain of salt.”

Clem shakes her head, her umber eyes gleaming. “That girl wouldn’t be wrong about something like this.”

Hess chuckles. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Not from Parisel,” you mumble to yourself, fingers tapping out a pattern on the stone of the counter. “Interesting.”

The mug clinks as Hess drops it back down onto the counter. When you glance her way, she’s studying you from beneath pale eyelashes. Her ice grey eyes are particularly unnerving when she’s concentrating so hard on you. You swallow. Reaching for your coffee mug and cupping it so that the warmth bleeds through the porcelain to your hands is not enough of a distraction from her evaluation. 

But then her lips quirk up in a smile, those storm tinted eyes made soft by the crow’s feet that surround them, and she reaches out to pat your arm. “So serious this early in the morning,” she says, downing the rest of her coffee and getting to her feet. She rests her hand on your arm for a minute. Her calloused palm catches on the cloth of your shirt, but the easy strength of her grip is a comfort. “Ari will bring over some herbs later today.”

“I-”

“No arguments.” Hess wraps her scarf around her neck as she slides some gold to Clem. Part of you misses the heavy heat of her hand on your arm. Clem’s dark eyes dart between the two of you even as her nimble fingers sort the coins. “I know you’ve got plenty of herbs at your place, but we both know Ari’s better at remedies than you.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Hess says, a wry grin on her lips.

You huff as Clem snickers. Hess gives you both a small wave and grabs her jacket from the coat rack, shrugging it on as she walks out the door.

Her exit casts your eye to the sky. It’s rapidly lightening now, streams of dim yellow arcing up from the horizon to chase away the deep blue dawn. You curse lightly and down your mug. It burns its way down your throat, hot and rich, but you ignoring the slight twinge as you fish in your pocket for gold.

“Duty calls?” Clem’s leaning on the counter.

“Mhmm.” For once, though, you’re looking forward to working the crops. There’s a slight buzz in your skull but it’s weak and feels as if it will remain so for the whole day. Spending the day with your fingers in the dirt sounds like the perfect way to try to recover as much as you can during this brief respite.

Clem grabs your mug and sets it to the side. “You know that there’s going to be a party, right?”

You pause in the middle of tucking your gold back into your pocket. Clem’s dark eyes are laughing when you glance up at her. There’s a matching grin spreading across her full lips. You scowl and this time, she laughs out loud. “Shit,” you mutter.

“Looking forward to seeing you there,” she teases.

You huff and head towards the door, grabbing your coat off the rack. “Yeah, yeah,” you say, putting on your jacket with a few sharp movements. “I know you will. Bye, Clem.”

“Bye,” she says, turning away, the sink turning on with a hiss.

“Hey Clem,” you call. She turns back to you. “Jac wants to learn to make coffee. Mayra and I would also like him to learn to make coffee.”

The smile that curls across her lips is soft and shy. “I can do that,” she says, her hands tapping against one of the foamers she’d picked up.

“Great,” you say. “I’ll tell him it’s a date.”

She drops the foamer and you exit with a smirk.

* * *

“Wow,” you say, glancing around the town hall. “Odette actually did a really good job. I guess the extra time paid off.”

“Oh, don’t let her hear you say that, she’ll be insufferable for months,” Mayra groans, adjusting her dress shirt. She looks around too, though, and makes a face as she takes in the soft lights strung across the rafters and the tasteful magnolia boughs on the pillars that bracket the hastily built dance floor. “Okay,” she says after a moment. “You’re right. She did good.”

“You don’t have to make it sound like you’re confessing to murder,” Jac says, playing idly with the cuff of his sleeve as his deep brown eyes dart around the room.

“Shut up and go find Clem.”

You hide your laugh in a cough as his ears flush darker. Mayra’s smile is triumphant as Jac mutters something but heads off. You hope he does actually find Clem while he still has time.

“I hope the pop-up is worth all this work he’s having put in,” you say, mouthing a thank you to Gin as he passes you a flute of champagne before he whirls off again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a MA have this much construction done or take so long with it.”

Mayra shrugs, sipping at her own flute of champagne. Her dark hair catches the light perfectly, the mass of it pulled back into a soft, messy chignon that draws attention to her slim neck. “Might mean he’s staying longer than the last one, though.”

“True,” you say. “They have been cycling in and out pretty quickly these past few years.”

She hums. “Oh, there’s Ryou.” 

Ryou heads over to the two of you when he catches sight of Mayra’s waving hand. You watch him bob through the milling crowd, his stout, strong figure forging an easy path. “So,” he says, his husky voice soothing. “Let’s hope this welcome was worth getting up for.”

“Don’t remind me,” you and Mayra chorus. You’d had to shift your entire schedule a few hours earlier in order to keep at the pace you needed for the airship deadline bearing down on you. In fact, pretty much every person who worked on the ranches and farms had done the same. Jac, of course, well versed in the art of baker’s hours and the only one of you who was actually functional that early, had thoroughly enjoyed himself as you and Mayra stumbled around.

Ryou lifts his glass to chime against yours. “To someone else taking the early shifts tomorrow.”

You laugh and drink to that, as does Mayra. 

“He here yet?” Ryou asks, shifting slightly to let someone by him.

You shrug. “We haven’t met him yet, so I don’t know.”

“Even after almost a month? Oh, yeah, I suppose he wouldn’t have been out to the farm yet since the pop-up isn’t ready yet. I’ll point him out if I see him.” 

You raise a brow.

“He sent the horses he came in with to our stable,” Ryou says with a grin, his teeth white against his olive skin. “Apparently there was some concern about the delivery bikes on such a long ride. I think that’s part of the delay with the pop-up, too. He’s waiting for some stuff from his home.”

“You know, if he stays as long as this construction hints at, we’re not going to be able to call it the pop-up anymore,” Mayra says.

You blink. “Now there’s a thought,” you mutter, taking another swig of your champagne. “By the way, are either of you going to actually tell me his name?”

Mayra rolls her eyes. “I told you already.”

“So tell me again.”

“It’s Silk.”

Ryou snorts at your blank look. “It’s Silas,” he tells you. “But I guess he sometimes goes by Silk.”

You choose to take another sip of your drink instead of commenting.

Ryou stays by your side as the three of you discuss the upcoming airship. The unease the delivery is causing has become more palpable day by day as the deadline for your products looms closer and closer. From the furrow in Ryou’s brow, Redwall is in a slightly more precarious position than both your farm and Heritage. Add in a new MA and it gets bleaker still. If no one from Redwall talks to this Silas, you will, because in your experience, MAs rarely realize the strain they put on your stocks when they’re first starting up. The Guild almost never sends rookie MAs to your town, where if a Fallen does attack, they’re cut off from Guild support. 

“Oh, there he is,” Ryou says, nodding towards the door.

“Late for his own party,” Mayra says, finishing off her drink before following Ryou’s gaze to the new MA.

You glance over as well. He’s tall and wiry, slim muscles shifting easily, with a shock of hair so silvery that it’s almost hard to discern the color as it shifts under the lights. You purse your lips, taking in the small, glittering earring hanging from one lobe and the stack of thin gold rings on one finger of each hand. His clothes are simple but even from afar you can gauge the cloth as a fine product.

Mayra meets your eyes. 

“Noble,” you and she say in tandem. 

Ryou’s laugh is rich, like warm honey being poured. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Mayra says, her gaze returning to Silas. “I do.”

“Mhmm.” You lift your champagne flute to your lips, taking a small sip of it, the crisp liquid refreshing.

Mayra rolls the stem of her flute between her fingers. “Guess we can keep calling it the pop-up, then.”

You snort. “Probably.”

Odette’s voice draws your attention back to the door. She’s merrily chattering at Silas - sometimes you wish you had more patience for her, despite everything, she’s a sweet girl - and he’s leaning down to better hear her as the fiddles strike up. 

You spare a glance towards the musicians (as usual, Jac is in the back of the pack, since his form would block everyone else from seeing the dance floor). You raise a hand in acknowledgement. He dips his head, his wavy bangs flopping into his eyes, and then blazes into a fast run.

You can hear the sound bouncing into the crowd, starting to whip them up into true celebration, but your eyes are drawn back to this new MA, this man who will have such an effect on your town. He’s still talking to Odette, listening intently as she gestures here and there. 

The soft drumming of a headache starts to take root in your right temple. 

The fiddles kick up louder and you down the rest of your drink. It’s your third, so it should take some of the edge off of the headache before it really even starts. 

Clem joins the little circle of your trio. Her eyes are focused on Jac as he adjusts his hold on the bow so that he can fingerpick as the other fiddles keep on going. 

Mayra leans over to her, a wicked grin curling at her lips. “Talented fingers, right?”

“Yeah,” Clem says, sounding somewhat dazed. She snaps right out of it when Mayra cackles, flushing. She gives Mayra a little shove as you hide your smile behind the lip of your empty glass.

The fiddle music soars higher and higher. You find yourself looking to Silas again. He’s talking to someone else now, a man that you can vaguely recognize as one of the ranch hands at Redwall. He looks intense but you can’t help but notice that he’s listening more than he’s talking.

Someone touches Silas' shoulder. Your eyes slip to the newcomer, a brunette wearing a sharp suit, as he leans over to say something quietly to Silas, his long braid slipping over his shoulder. Silas’s eyes narrow and he nods, touching the other man gently on the wrist. He moves away from Silas with an easy, confident gait.

You watch the man greet one or two people before he stops to talk to one of the town officials. You sip absentmindedly from your glass, your free arm crossed over your chest. After a second, it registers that your glass is empty. You make a face and sigh.

“Want to?” Clem asks. You grimace, knowing that you missed the first half of the question and also knowing that with Clem, you really ought to know what you’re agreeing to before you do actually agree. The man looks up and makes eye contact with you just as you’re turning to her. You get only the briefest glance at his eyes - all you can do is dimly register they seemed an unusual color - before Clem grabs you by the wrist and tugs.

It startles a laugh out of you as Mayra grabs your other wrist, plucking the flute from your hands and setting it on a nearby table. The two of them tow you to the dance floor as the fiddles whip into a frenzied partner dance. 

Mayra lets go of you so that Clem can step in. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her and Ryou partner up and start spinning to the beat. Clem seems to want to lead, so you let her, the room blurring as she twists you around.

The drink is going to your head, you realize, as laughter spills out like a babbling brook between the two of you. Kira is singing, too, her voice booming over the fiddles and helping everyone stay on beat as the fiddles race faster than human feet ever could. 

Clem whirls you around, sweat glistening on her brow and her curls flying out behind her. The fiddles abruptly shift into a partner switch tune. They slow incrementally, just enough that you can be thrown into someone else’s grip.

You swing into Mayra first - her hair is coming undone, shining rivers of it tumbling down her back - and the two of you fight for a minute over lead before you settle into following. Your heartbeat is pulsing in your ears and your feet are moving faster and faster, the joy working its way up through your body, covering even the last remnants of your muted headache.

At Kira’s call, you’re sent spinning. Ryou reels you in by the wrist but lets you lead, laughing with you as the two of you try to match the blistering pace. Kira calls again. It’s Ari this time, her red lips smirking as she presses a kiss against Hess’s cheek before carrying you off. Kira calls again. And again. And again.

You’re laughing with one of the Redwall wranglers as he tries to keep up and fails, wobbly with alcohol. Still, he makes a valiant effort of it. Your chest is heaving as you try to catch your breath. Clem is stumbling off the dance floor and you think of joining her. But the wrangler spins you once more. Kira calls and he whips you off to your next partner. You yelp a bit at the overzealous move, closing your eyes and hoping that someone a bit more sober sweeps you up.

Your new partner catches you. You blink your eyes open as he steadies you, your hands instinctively coming up to grip his forearms. You’re just starting to thank him when the frisson of agony arcs through you. The sheer force of the pain slams through you like a tidal wave, dragging at all of your senses. The man tightens his grip on you as your knees start to give out. The pain rolls over you once more.

You think you scream.

Things are fuzzy at the edges now. You seem to be getting shorter. It takes a second to realize that your partner is lowering you to the floor, trying to make sure your wobbly, coltish knees don’t take you both to the ground. You tighten your hand in the soft, dark material of his sleeves, gasping for air.

With a tilt of your head, you meet your partner’s eyes for the first time. The sensation that lances through you is so tearing, so powerful, part of you can’t even register it as pain. Even as your vision starts to fade, you stay trapped in your partner’s gaze.

His eyes are molten gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went fucking mad lads this one got away from me a little bit
> 
> i know it's still a lot of world building and not a lot of recognizable FooFan yet ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ but I swear it's coming 
> 
> i'm having fun and i hope you are too!
> 
> also yes i had to make him Silas's Food Soul so that my dumb biased ass didn't make him this MA's calling Food Soul (because he would dig in his fucking heels and make it hurt i s w e a r) and i finally picked the actual Soul so i COULD NOT have him interfering.


	3. those familiar truck rides

Mayra’s just handed you a cup of coffee when you hear the muffled rumble of a car engine coming up the road. 

“Shit,” you mutter, eyeing the cup in your hands. There’s still steam wafting from it. The warmth radiating from the porcelain makes you want to trudge back upstairs into your cozy, warm bed. 

“Don’t do it,” Jac says. His eyes are alert as he dusts a handful of flour across his workspace. His large hands are heavy on the dough he’s kneading, working the flour in just enough before he starts to shape it with quick, careful movements.

In direct contrast to Jac’s energetic form, Mayra’s leaning against the wall, her hair coming loose from the clumsy braid she’d created while stumbling down the stairs at your soft call. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her dark eyes are half-mast. With the way your own eyelids are drooping, you probably look just as dazed.

From Jac’s smug little smile, he’s absolutely delighted at the state of you both.

Outside, the engine clicks off. After a moment, there’s the heavy thunk of workboots on the thick oak planks of your porch.

“Don’t do it,” Jac repeats as you continue to stare down into your mug. He’s paused in the middle of transferring his dough into a bowl to rise, his eyes on you. “Even you aren’t quite that dumb.”

Mayra snorts.

“Just take it into town,” she says, pushing off from the wall with a yawn. There’s a second car engine approaching now. You can hear Lu Ren moving around on the porch. “You’ll have a little bit before you have to dump it.”

“Fine,” you grumble.

Jac turns back to his work. He dumps the round of dough into an oiled bowl and drapes a kitchen towel - one of your favorites, embroidered with varying vegetables in the shaky hand of a young child, the colors bright - over it. You take a swig of your coffee as he sets it aside and wince as it scalds your tongue. It’s probably for the best that you didn’t try to chug it after all.

“I’ll help you load up,” Jac says, washing his hands as the second engine grinds off with a groan of the gears. Mayra’s already disappeared down the hallway. You can hear her cursing to herself as she struggles to get her boots on.

“Thanks.”

You follow Jac out onto the porch, only pausing to shrug on your jacket. It’s pitch black beyond the illumination of your porch lights, the crescent moon barely shedding any light in the dark sky. It’s so early that the birds aren’t even beginning to stir. There’s a quiet inherent to this time of morning. It’s the type of hour that muffles sounds somehow, like each sound is waiting to wake with the dawn.

“Morning,” Lu Ren murmurs as he passes you, one of your large produce baskets cradled in his sinewy arms. 

You return the greeting just as softly before squatting to heft up one of the baskets. It’s heavy, filled to the brim with puffy pea pods. Next to you, Jac clicks his tongue but says nothing, stooping to pick up his own container of produce.

You follow head towards the truck. The headlights cut through the thick black of the night. Between those and the porch lights, it’s easy enough to maneuver over the dirt path. Lu Ren’s up in the bed of the truck. He’s tucking the basket into place, but he glances up with a small smile when you thunk yours down.

“C’mon up,” he says, extending a hand. You grab it and swing up into the truck bed with a quiet grunt of effort. There’s the faintest throb of pain just behind your eye. You grit your teeth.

“Thanks.”

“Course.” 

You lean down to grab the container from Jac, taking a moment to find your balance before getting it up the rest of the way into the truck. You tuck it carefully into place, mindful of keeping your produce separate from Lu Ren’s own. It’s habit to leave the wide berths you’ll need free later. Next to you, Lu Ren is similarly avoiding them, tucking your produce into place with familiar ease that tugs at your heart. Sensing your gaze, he glances up and sends you another wide smile, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness.

Between the three of you, loading the truck is relatively easy work. Mayra waves lazily as she trundles by in Ji Cheng’s truck. She’s already leaning against the doorframe, looking like she’s about a minute from falling asleep. You wave back. Jac calls out a goodbye to her as the truck disappears from sight, heading into town.

By the time the truck is fully loaded, soft fingers of light are starting to streak across the horizon. Lu Ren leans into the open window to cut the headlights. The soft start of dawn and your porch lights are enough to see by. You tuck the final container into place before surveying the truck bed, your hands on your hips, counting quietly to yourself. With a nod, you hop down from the truck bed, grunting slightly as the impact makes your knees twinge briefly.

Jac and Lu Ren have retreated to the porch. You can hear them quietly talking as you slam the tailgate closed. It squeaks as you do so, a sharp groan of metal on metal. You dust your hands off. Jac disappears into the farmhouse as you mount the steps. Lu Ren sends you that lightning grin of his, a flash of sunshine.

“Hey,” he says. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” you say, clasping his outstretched hand and pulling him in for a hug. He laughs and wraps an arm around you, clapping you on the back before releasing you.

“Ready for today?”

“No,” you mutter. “Also, you’re far too cheerful for this hour.” But you can feel a smile tugging at your own lips. Lu Ren’s joy has always been contagious. 

“Now I know you’re not complaining about how early it is. The sun’s practically up, after all.” He gestures to the expanse of your farm, softly outlined by the light steadily creeping higher on the horizon. 

“And if I am?”

“Then you should remember that some of us had to get up even earlier to get to you at this hour.”

“Okay, yes,” you concede. “Thank you for that.”

He grins. “Trip’s always better with company.”

“True. Should we get to town?”

Lu Ren nods, running a hand through his shaggy black hair. “Yeah, I think it’s about that time. Need anything else?” He pulls his keys from his pocket and tosses them into the air, grabbing them with one hand as they come down. 

“Let me grab my bag,” you say, starting for the door. Lu Ren hums and starts down the steps, heading towards the truck.

“Here,” Jac says, pushing through the screen door and shoving your bag into your arms. He waits until you’ve swung it over your shoulder to hand you the mug of coffee. 

“Thanks.”

“Take these too,” he says, handing you a bundle of cheesecloth, loosely knotted at the top to form a sort of pouch. You pull at the knot enough to peek inside. It’s breakfast pastries, crispy and golden, some dappled with filling, some more traditional treats from other nations. “There’s some for Lu Ren, too.”

“Thank you, Jac,” you say again, tying the cheesecloth back up again and tucking the small pouch into your bag. “You didn’t have to.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

He raises his burly shoulders in a half hearted shrug, but his smile is warm. Behind you, Lu Ren beeps the horn, a short jagged sound that almost makes you lurch. You wave him off without turning around, because Jac has his bottom lip between his teeth and is worrying the tender flesh.

You arch a brow.

“Look, I know it’s - I know - I just - ” he trails off.

You flex your hand by your side, feeling your smile wilt away. 

He bites his lip again before shaking his head with a sigh. “Travel safe.”

You press a hand against his forearm and give him a small squeeze. “Of course. See you soon.”

Lu Ren beeps again, drawing a curse from your lips. “Coming!” you shout back, grabbing the mug of coffee - now lukewarm, from the feel of the porcelain against your palm - and trying not to spill it as you scramble down the steps. 

“Impatient,” you growl to Lu Ren through the open window, reaching inside to click the finicky passenger door lock open. 

“Just want to be on time.” He reaches out and takes your coffee when you extend it through the window. You pull the door open and clamber up into the passenger seat, slinging your bag onto the floor. 

You slump back into your seat, coffee back in your grasp, as Lu Ren starts the truck. It comes to life with a groan. He pats the wheel encouragingly as the engine starts to purr, the truck rumbling softly around you.

The ride into town isn’t long. Lu Ren regales you with a few tales of the early harvest at his farm. One of his new farm hands - green as grass, he tells you, with a shake of his head that’s almost fond - had managed to break multiple farms tools in his first week. His voice is soothing. You lean back against the seat even more, feeling your eyelids droop as the truck rocks you just slightly. 

Lu Ren speaks more softly. When you crack an eye back open to look at him, he gives you a sheepish little smile before continuing in his normal tone. His hand, heavy and warm, finds its way to your knee. He squeezes softly but withdraws as you finally hit the cobblestones of the main road in town.

Once the truck grinds to a halt, you chug the rest of your coffee before tucking the mug snugly into the dashboard. You kick open the passenger door - Lu Ren sighs but says nothing - and get out of the car.

The sun’s truly rising now, casting soft dawn light over the square. A smattering of people have congregated in the square. They’re mostly clustered around the other four trucks. Ari waves to you. She’s leaning against Ji Cheng’s truck, talking to Mayra through the window. You wander towards them, circling around the back of Ji Cheng’s truck. You peek through the slats of his tailgate to see what the ranch has sent out. One of the goats bleats at you; you bleat right back, reaching over the tailgate to let it butt against your palm.

“Morning,” Ari says, coming up beside you. She’s only half dressed, a shawl wrapped tightly around her slim frame. The soft light burnishes her red hair into copper. She looks tired, but the smile she offers you is genuine. 

“Morning,” you say, bumping her with your shoulder. “Up early.”

“The fucking rooster,” she grumbles. “Couldn’t get back to sleep, thought I’d come see you all off.”

You bite your lip against the laugh. 

Ari drapes a hand over the tailgate as well. The goat abandons you to butt against her long fingers. She hums and runs her hand over its head. “Kira wants to talk to you before you go.”

“Why?”

Ari shrugs. “You’ll have to ask her. Also, that new Master Attendant has been asking about you. He wanted to go visit but I told him to wait.”

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose. “Thanks.”

“Mhmm.”

You nudge at the goat, trying to get its attention. It bleats at you but keeps butting against Ari. She pets it a few more times before withdrawing. She tucks her hands under her arms, wrapping her thin shawl tighter.

“I know that I was lucky to keep you out of the fields at all,” she says softly. Your fingers tighten in the goat’s hair. “And I know what the airship means, and why you feel you have to go, but please, I am asking you one last time - please let one of the others do this for you. Go home and rest.”

You let the goat butt against your hand once more before pulling away from the tailgate. “I’m fine,” you say.

“You collapsed,” Ari points out. “That’s not fine.”

“I’m _fine_.”

There’s a flush creeping up Ari’s chest as she grits her teeth. “I want you to think about that first day of rest,” she says, her voice measured. “That’s not what fine feels like. But your mind is set, and I understand. Go. But please, take it easy.”

 _I’m sorry_ , you want to tell her. She’d been so steady, those first two days, when you were still reeling from the pain. You know you’d been sharp with anger as she applied poultices and compresses, trying to heal something she couldn’t quite understand. You’d never seen that expression on her before, the confused helplessness as she poured over your exam results again and again and found nothing wrong.

She’s petting the goat again, her carmine lips - you don’t think you’ve ever seen Ari without lipstick, actually, no matter the hour - pursed. 

You nudge her. “I’ll take it easy,” you say.

The smile she flashes is tight, but it’s a smile. “I’ll take what I can get,” she says.

There’s a call of your name. It’s Kira, from the sound of it, and when you glance toward the sound, she’s beckoning to you from her place beside Lu Ren’s truck. 

Ari waves you off. You head over to Kira, greeting her warmly as she leans over to inspect the nearest container of produce.

“Morning,” she says. “Everything’s almost loaded up.”

“Good, we should head out soon. Ari said you wanted to talk?”

Kira sighs, crossing her arms over her broad frame. She’s a sturdily built woman. It’s been years since she became the leader of your town, and it shows in her quiet authority. “Silas will be traveling along for the airship drop.”

You can’t quite help the noise that escapes from you.

Kira narrows her hazel eyes at you. “Something to say?” she says pleasantly.

“It’s unusual.”

“But not unheard of.” Kira eyes you for a moment before softening. “Don’t be mean.”

You throw your hands up. “Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”

Kira raises a brow. “He wants to ride with you,” she says, clearly having decided not to address your previous statement. You clench your fist. “I suggested Gilly might be better, but he said he’d spoken to her and she’d suggested you.”

“Goddammit, Gilly,” you mutter.

Kira can’t quite hide her smile. “You know she was right to do so,” she says gently. “Besides, he was concerned about you. Said that Ari had forbade him from visiting - don’t give me that look, I’m sure she was perfectly kind about it, but you know how she can come across to strangers - and that he was hoping to check in.”

You grit your teeth. “He’ll have to work.”

“I’m sure he knows that.”

“He better,” you mutter.

Kira heaves a sigh. “Just remember,” she says softly. “He’s the new Master Attendant of our town. He’s due a certain amount of respect.”

“I know.”

She eyes you for a moment more. Her keen gaze makes you shift. “Good,” she says after a moment. “Produce looks excellent, by the way.” She pushes off of the truck.

“Thanks,” you grumble.

She makes a quiet noise of acknowledgement before continuing on to the next truck, waving down on of the ranch hands from Redwall. 

You move forward to the driver’s side window. Lu Ren leans out of it, folding his arms and grinning ruefully at you. “We’re getting some company?”

“Guess so.”

“It’s fine,” he says, sensing your irritation. “You would have had to have ridden in the back at some point anyway. I’ll miss the company, though. Guess I’ll just have to open the window and yell.”

“Shut up,” you say with a laugh. “I know perfectly well we can talk through the truck slider.” You tilt your head back and look up to the sky. It’s almost sunrise now, the light stretching further and further across the expanse of the slowly fading night. “Looks like we’ve got to get moving,” you say. “Let me go check in with Redwall and then we can go.”

“Sounds good,” he says.

You head over towards a few of the Redwall hands. They greet you cheerfully. They’re still packing up their truck - or, rather, re-packing, as apparently a few of the egg crates were a little more unsteady than they would have liked - and you pitch in immediately, chattering with them as you rearrange the eggs and strap the containers down firmly. As you suspected, they’re slightly short of the airship’s order, but they only seem slightly nervous about it. A few of them ask you to swing by Redwall after things have settled a bit more - you’re grateful that they leave the reference to your health as oblique as they do - to talk about the new dynamic that comes with a new Master Attendant. 

The sun is rising higher over the horizon, and you wave them off to get into their truck. Some of them clamber into the bed of it, making themselves as comfortable as they can amid their cargo. You head back to Lu Ren. He’s leaning against the side of his truck. There’s someone in the passenger seat. You assume it’s Silas and make your way to the back of the truck to hop into the bed. The tailgate’s already open, so you start to hop up.

“Oh, let me help you,” someone says, and you almost slip. 

Firm hands catch and steady you before pulling you up fluidly into the bed of the truck. “Careful,” Silas says. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you. Lu Ren said we would need to be back here.”

“Thanks,” you say, pulling away from his grip, looking down to make sure you’re placing your feet carefully around the cargo, but watching Silas out of the corner of your eye. He’s smiling brightly at you. His hair is just as strangely shifting in color as you remember, the silver tinged a soft lilac in the early morning light. It takes you a second to register the word ‘we’. 

You whip your head up and your gaze flits wildly around the truck bed. You locate the Food Soul instantly. He’s leaning against the cab of the truck, a soft smile on his lips. His eyes are just as striking as you remember, molten gold even in the soft light. The monocle you’d never noticed - Odette had gushed about how distinguished it was when she’d visited you on the second day of your “rest” imprisonment in the farmhouse - glints in the light. 

He inclines his head towards you and stands up fully. He moves carefully through the truck bed until he’s closer - not that he was far in the first place - to you and Silas. You swallow.

“Good morning,” the Food Soul murmurs. 

It takes you a few seconds to remember to return the greeting. “Morning,” you say.

“I’m so glad we’re finally able to meet you,” Silas says. His voice is soft, and kind, but there’s an underlying authority to it that makes you chafe. “I’m Silas. This is Peking Duck, one of my Food Souls.” 

You shake Silas’s hand when he extends it. The rings - stacks of them, you notice again, at least ten up the length of his pointer finger, all gold and all glinting in the light - are cold against your hand. You curl your fingers up by your side when he releases you.

The Food Soul - Peking Duck, you remind yourself - also extends a hand. You stare for a moment before reaching out. You hesitate right before gripping his hand, knowing you’ll let go as soon as you can, already wincing away from the arcing pain you can’t help but associate with touching him.

But the agony never comes. You let go of him instantly anyway before registering that you don’t hurt at all. The headache that’s been simmering pulses once, twice, but compared to that night, it’s barely even worth noticing.

You blink and dare to glance quickly at his face. He’s still smiling, the expression all quiet contentment, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed your hesitance in the slightest. “It’s a pleasure,” he says. His voice is smooth and calm. “Our first meeting was not under the most auspicious circumstances. It is my hope that you are in better health now.”

You wonder briefly if Black Tea had been wrong - but perhaps Peking Duck isn’t as strong as she is, can’t sense whatever it was that she had sensed. Either way, you pull back a little more quickly than you should have. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I’m fine. And thank you, Peking Duck, for your assistance that evening.” 

He inclines his head again, his smile warm like the sun.

Silas starts to say something, but the trucker slider opens with a loud slam. “C’mon,” Lu Ren says, peeking through the open space. “It’s time to go.” Sure enough, the other trucks have rumbled to life. A few of the occupants are calling out to each other while others are tugging on the straps securing their cargo a few more times.

“Thanks, Lu Ren,” you say, stepping carefully through the cargo to one of the empty berths the two of you had left while loading. You settle into the one closest to the truck’s cab, both so you can speak to Lu Ren and so that there’s only space on one side of you. Lu Ren slides the slider shut partway. You feel the engine purr as he turns the truck on.

Silas settles into the small berth across from you. You can already tell that he’s brimming with questions and once again, you curse Gilly. You consider that perhaps you should stop knowing as much about the farms and the produce of your region if this is what it brings you. Part of you knows that you should be more pleased to have a Master Attendant who wants to be involved, but you also know better than to trust that it will last.

You feel more than see Peking settle next to you. You flinch away, just a bit, having expected him to stay closer to his Master Attendant. The size of the truck bed, while not small, isn’t large enough for the berths to have that much separating them, especially in this section, where the containers aren’t piled as high in preparation for the work you’ll need to complete during the ride. 

Once they both seem settled, you slap the cab twice. Lu Ren immediately pulls out. The bounce of the cobblestones is worse in the truck bed then it was in the cab, but you’re used to it. Silas seems a bit more startled, grabbing at the edge of the truck bed for a moment before he seems to find his balance. 

The three of you are quiet as you pull out of town, since the noise of the trucks echoing through the streets makes it almost impossible to hear. You know it’ll be easier (sadly) once you’ve reached the road outside town, where the forest absorbs the sound instead of reflecting it.

Two of the trucks start to pass you - ranch trucks, the animals bleating their irritation - the occupants waving as they go. Mayra, most of her torso hanging out of the window so she can see you, tips you a wink and mouths ‘sorry’ at you when she notices who your companions are.

‘Fuck you’ you mouth back, cupping your hands around your mouth to keep Silas and Peking from seeing.

She just laughs and draws back into the cab of the truck with a wave. You make a mental note that you’ll need some sort of revenge.

“Do you know all of them?” Silas asks as you wave to the second truck, this one mostly Redwall ranch hands. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the ruckus. 

“Most,” you say with a shrug. “There’s some changeover but a lot of them are steady.”

“They’re ranch hands, right?”

“Yup.” you say, tapping on the truck slider briefly. “Water,” you tell Lu Ren when he slides it open again. “Please.”

He says something to the person next to him - you crane forward to see if it’s someone you know, but it’s a worker you only faintly recognize, likely someone from Lu Ren’s town - and then hands you a few of the water bottles you’d had stashed in your bag through the slider. 

“Thanks,” you say.

You hold one of the bottles up to Silas. “Want one?”

He nods and you toss it to him. He’s actually pretty deft, catching it with ease. He tucks it in under one of the tarps he’s next to. “Thanks,” he says. “I didn’t think to bring anything.” He ruffles his hair, looking sheepish. “Kind of had to rush this morning.”

“Peking Duck?” you ask, turning just slightly towards him, looking by him more than at him.

“Thank you, but I do not require water,” he says gently. “It would be best to keep it for the two of you. And Peking is perfectly fine.”

“Okay,” you say, knowing you have no right to be unnerved something so simple. You pry your water bottle open and sip at it solely so you have something to do.

The road has opened up, widening as you finally reach the small fields of Gilly’s farm - the opposite side of town from you - and you watch them roll past until the edge of the forest takes over. The trees thicken and you can hear the birds calling. With the road wide enough now, some of the trucks pull up next to each other, the occupants shouting back and forth. You can’t help the smile.

“I didn’t think there were this many farms and ranches in the town,” Silas says.

You sigh and turn your gaze towards him. “There’s not,” you say. “For airship, we tend to meet up with farms and ranches from towns farther out. Simpler for transport.”

Silas nods, looking fascinated. The sheer interest in his expression makes you falter for a moment. 

“How did you get assigned here?” you ask. “The Guild hasn’t sent anyone for the po-the restaurant in a while.”

Peking chuckles softly next to you. You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“Oh,” Silas says, lounging back against the side of the truck. “I asked to be assigned. I wanted to know more about the farms. It’s all so fascinating, you all must live such interesting lives.”

You bite your tongue. Silas’s earring catches the dim sunlight filtering through the canopy of the trees and you choose to focus on the sparkle of it instead of his words. Lu Ren makes a small noise that makes you think he’s been listening. Fucking nobles and their obsession with farm life will be the death of you. 

“Ah,” you say. “Well, lucky you. I’ll need your help on the trip today. If you’re in the bed of the truck, you work.” You gesture to the trucks around you, knowing that your statement will be true for every truck Silas sees.

Silas perks up immediately. “What can I do?”

You nod towards one of the empty harvest bags by his berth. There’s one next to you as well. You reach for it and set it up next to you, rolling the sides of it down enough for the mouth of it to be wider. Silas cranes towards you and copies your motions. It’s sloppy, but he does a good enough job that you’re not worried about spilling. 

The basket of pea pods is next. You hum to yourself, running a finger along one of the thick pods. It’s heavy with peas, the pod distended around the hidden legumes. The pods are the deep verdant green of spring. “I shell the peas on the way to Hilena,” you explain. “It keeps them fresh a little bit longer.”

“Oh,” Silas says. “That makes sense.”

You’re half expecting him to stare at the pod (he’s pulled up his own basket and tucked it next to him for easy access) until you tell him what to do - it’s an easy enough process, but you still have to learn it. Instead, he immediately takes a pod and slides a nail under the edge of it. He unzips it with a quick move before breaking the pod open, sliding his thumb along the inside so that the peas plink into the open mouth of the harvesting bag.

You realize that you’re staring. It’s dumb, really, because again, it’s not that difficult, but he moves with the ease of deep familiarity. 

Silas looks up and smiles at whatever expression is painted across your face. “I helped a bit in the kitchen when I was young,” he says. “These days, I get the peas already shelled, but I spent hours with Helgi doing prep.”

“Great,” you say. “Because we have a lot to get through.”

He laughs and nods.

You break open your own pod with a satisfying crunch. The peas are plump against your questing fingertip. You can’t help it. You pop one into your mouth, close your eyes, and for a moment, you taste spring. You start working your way through the pods with ease, settling into a quick rhythm.

“Ah,” Peking says from beside you. “I’m afraid that I have to admit I’ve never done this before.”

You blink. “Oh,” you say. You glance at Silas. He’s clearly as surprised as you are, but he just smiles. “You don’t have to.”

“You said that if we’re in the back of the truck, we need to work. I would like to help.”

You’re half tempted to tell Peking that Silas can show him, but it might be a little obvious to ask him to go across the bed of the truck when you’re right there. “I can...show you.” 

“Thank you. You’re quite skilled at it,” he says, leaning over to examine how your hands move. His long braid is draped over his shoulder.

“I’ve done it a lot.” You try to make sure it’s not that obvious that while he’s leaning in, you’re leaning away from him. “Here.” You break open the pod more slowly than usual, making sure to show him the right way to unzip the pod.

“I see,” Peking says. “Thank you.”

You watch him try to open the pod. He has long, elegant fingers, but even as graceful as he seems, he struggles with it. When he finally gets it, the pod breaks unevenly. A few peas patter against the floor of the truck. 

Something small and yellow darts out from under his feet and gulps up the peas. You yelp, one hand flying up to your chest. At the sound, the tiny creature darts back under him, shielded from you by his feet and the slight jut of the berth Peking is resting on.

“Was...was that a duckling?”

“Ah, yes. My children stay with me,” Peking says, a fond smile gracing his lips as he scoops up the duckling gently. _His children_ , you muse. Sometimes, Food Souls are truly beyond you. “I did not realize you weren’t aware.” The duckling quacks at you. There’s a small chorus of quacks in response. The ducklings must be milling at Peking’s feet, or seeking the shade provided by the containers that surround you.

Silas chuckles. “I call them his familiars,” he tells you. He’s still shelling, apparently quite content to watch you and Peking interact.

“Ah,” you say, nonplussed. 

Peking deposits the duckling onto his lap and picks up another pod. He tries again with the same result. This time, several ducklings dart out from underneath him, snapping up the peas with gusto.

“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the motion needed,” Peking says, sounding bemused by his own failure. “Would it be too much to ask for you to guide me?”

You stiffen.

When you look up, Peking is watching you curiously. He seems genuine in his want to assist, and you know you’re not exactly being fair to him. He’s shown no sign of noticing that you have a Soul calling you. It’s hard to imagine that just a bit more contact with him will give you away. You weigh your options for a moment, chewing your lip. “Sure,” you say after a moment. “I can guide you.”

Peking leans closer still, extending his hands to rest directly beside you. You can feel the heat emanating from him. It takes conscious effort to keep from flinching away. When you reach out, you can’t help but notice that your hands are shaking.

Again, that frisson of agony is absent when you touch him. Your head pounds, the headache drumming against you, but it’s a familiar pain. Some of the tension melts out of your tight shoulders. You guide his hands as steadily as you can. It’s slower than you’d like, but you’d rather only do this once. 

His skin is ablaze with heat. It hadn’t felt this intense when you’d shaken his hand, but then again, you’d kept the contact as minimal as possible. 

Once you’ve emptied the pod, you pull back sharply.

Peking smiles at you. “Thank you,” he says again.

“Sure,” you say, somehow feeling the heat of him lingering against your fingertips. You touch your middle finger and thumb together. It aches, just slightly, like when you were a child and dipped your fingers into hot wax, letting it set before peeling it off, leaving you with the smallest of burns.

Peking leans back again. The air feels lighter, somehow. His grip on the next pod is slow and slightly clumsy, but he gets it open without any peas falling to the ground. You tilt your head back for a moment, letting the dappled sunlight run across your face. There’s a breeze from the truck’s movement. It’s gentle against you. You have a feeling that this trip to Hilena will be some of the longest five hours of your life. You take a deep breath and open your eyes again.

Silas smiles at you and asks you about the next batch of produce that you’ll harvest.

You’re so busy answering him that you don’t notice when Peking changes his grip on the next pod and is suddenly shelling the peas with an easy grace that matches yours.

Peking watches you from the corner of his eye, and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lads it's becoming apparent with this story that long chapters are just a thing.
> 
> i have so many characters kljsdflsj but i guess that's what it takes to build a whole town lol
> 
> turns out it's super difficult to write someone who is nervous around Peking for their own reasons rather than because they recognize that something is off about him!
> 
> speaking of Peking he's a conniving dick who is living to make life uncomfortable for this MA!
> 
> i'm fudging the growing seasons a little bit but i suppose since i'm not saying specific months it's fine right?? right.


	4. that sea salt city

Someone starts up with an old fieldwork song.

Silas has been asking you about spring produce with all the eagerness of a young boy. His enthusiasm is almost sweet, but mostly, the relentless flow of questions feeds your growing headache. He cuts himself off mid-question to listen, his head turning towards the truck that the sound is issuing from. It’s a farm truck, piled high with radishes, the leafy greens spilling over the rims of the woven baskets. The deep ruby red of their skins shine in the light of the steadily climbing sun.

The sound of the song swells as other voices chime in, rising from the trucks all around you. You close your eyes for a moment and let the song seep into you, just as it has seeped into the soil for years and years. The tension leaks from your shoulders. 

You hum the tune. It’s soft and rolling, with a few deep pauses that would usually be filled with the thump of a hoe hitting the soil. 

“You know the song?” Silas asks, turning back to face you. His hands have slowed, his fingers still firm on the pod but his attention split. He keeps his head tilted, as if it will help him listen better.

“No,” you say. “I’m just guessing.”

There’s a muffled snort from the cab of the truck. Silas flushes a bit as you start to hum again. 

Peking chuckles beside you. Your head pulses. “It is an old song, is it not?” he asks.

“Yes. Older than all the farms, mine included.”

_Some say the song nourishes the crops more than water_ , you don’t say out loud, your eyes connecting with Lu Ren’s as he glances back through the slider. _That the seeds push through the ground just to better hear_. The knowing smile he offers you warms something in you, reminds you of the day the two of you first broke earth together, of laughing in the fields while pushing seeds into the cool, damp soil. He looks to the road again, still singing, his version of the song honeyed.

“Your farm is the eastward one, correct?” There’s no hint of curiosity in Peking’s voice; it’s more of a statement than a question. “It’s very well laid out.”

You pause, fingers going still on the plump pod you’d been stripping. “Yes,” you say, glancing at Peking from the corner of your eye. “That’s right, the eastward farm is mine. I didn’t think you’d been.”

“Oh,” Silas says, “We haven’t been.” He’s leaning back against the side of the truck now, his face turned to the sun. Again, you’re struck by the color of his hair, true silver now, soft and reflecting the sunlight.

“We passed it as we came to town for the first time,” Peking says, smiling gently at your obvious confusion. “There was someone in the field that day. I would assume it was you.”

“That would seem likely,” you say. “I can’t say I remember either of you.”

“I believe,” he says, his golden gaze a heavy weight on your form, “that you may have been unwell that day. We stopped when someone cried out, but were waved on.”

Your fingers tighten on the pod. Even with the other night to overshadow it, it’s easy to conjure up the bold streak of pain that had rattled through you that day. In a way, that time was even worse, to have such an unexpected flash of agony within the safety of your own fields. You shrug. “Probably dropped a trowel on myself.”

Peking eyes you for a moment, his gaze oddly sharp before it melts away as he flashes a beatific smile. “Either way, it drew attention to your fields,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve seen a farm laid out quite like yours. It’s quite beautiful.”

“I just try to listen to the crops and seed them where they seem happiest.”

“How can you tell?” Silas asks, shifting his empty basket towards you so that you can dump in more pea pods from one of the other harvesting containers.

You shrug. “Some things just grow better in certain areas. And some do better when they’re rotated into an area after other crops, that’s pretty basic,” you say. “I experimented for a few years and found a pattern. For everything else, there’s other farms or the hothouse.”

Silas is opening his mouth - another question, you’re sure - when you furrow your brow. “Wait,” you say. “Was that you in the wagon, then?”

“Ah - yes?”

“Why did you come in a wagon instead of a vehicle? Long ways to go with a wagon.”

His pale cheeks grow red again. “Well,” he says. He’s spinning one of his rings, one of the ones closest to the tip of his index finger. The gold of it flashes in the sun. “With the desert and machinery, sometimes the sand-”

You frown. You could have sworn that Odette had said that Silas was from Nevras, and knowing her, she wouldn’t get a fact like that wrong. He could have been traveling in Palata, you suppose, but - “Oh fuck,” you say as it clicks into place. You can’t manage to contain the laugh that starts to flow out of you. “You thought it would help you fit in. That it’d be more country.” 

Peking coughs slightly, as if he is perhaps hiding a chuckle. 

Silas flushes even more, the ruddy glow spreading to the tips of his ears. He’s squirming now, just a bit, shifting back and forth in the berth as he tries to concentrate on the pod in his hands.

“You did, didn’t you?” you press. 

“I-” He casts a glance towards Peking, but his Food Soul is pointedly not looking at him, a small smirk on his lips. Silas wilts. “I-I suppose…”

_Nobles_ , you think, hearing the word in Mayra’s voice, dripping with scorn. It’s tempting, the urge to prod him more, but you just snap open the pea pod in your hand and say, “I hope you at least knew how to care for the horses on your journey.”

A familiar lull in the song around you pulls your attention away from Silas. You perk up as the lull grows, a smile curving across your lips. The hush of the lull is gentle, and then, a single voice rises, sprouting like a vine. You balance your basket in your lap and turn towards the back of Lu Ren’s truck, towards the truck the voice is rising from - one of Redwall’s, you suppose, since you can see Ryou lounging over the roof of the cab, his thick arms draped over the metal - before closing your eyes. 

The ranch hand’s baritone is rich like the earth. You can hear Lu Ren harmonizing quietly behind you, but mostly, there’s just the quiet flow of the wind, the rumble of the trucks, and the field song. The sounds settle against your headache like a balm. You listen, moving with the gentle sway of the truck, and you think of dirt against your blunt fingertips, of the waxy stem of a still young plant, and of the chill spring nights on the porch with blankets draped over your form. 

The truck hits a bump. You sway with it easily, long used to the feeling, but a hand wraps around your wrist just as you feel the basket in your lap begin to slip. Your headache roars like a freshly fed fire.

“Careful,” Peking says to you softly as your eyes jolt open. His long fingers are a brand around your wrist, hot and heavy despite the slim delicacy of his fingers. He’s pressing your basket into place with his other hand, the wicker of it scratching you slightly, even through your clothes. You meet his golden eyes and suck in a quick breath. “I’d hate to see all that hard work undone.”

“Oh,” you say, more croakily than you mean to sound. “Thank you.” You pull away as quickly as you can without being too rude. His fingers slip away from your wrist, brushing gently against the soft inner skin of it. The hair on the back of your neck raises. There’s a quick pulse of pain just behind your left eye. You can already tell the headache will settle there.

“Of course,” Peking says, a smile rising to his lip as he settles back into his berth. “I can understand why you were so lost in the song.” He starts shelling again. You pull your gaze away from him and find yourself looking at Silas.

The Master Attendant has a look on his face that you can’t quite read. There’s a strange sort of softness to it, but you think there might almost be a sadness to his deep brown eyes. Whatever it is, it’s fleeting - he flips you a grin that’s almost fully recovered from his embarrassment. “Is that part always in the song?” he asks.

Other voices fade in again, rising up to meet the baritone as the song cycles back into the more familiar pattern meant to be punctuated by the swing of a hoe. 

You turn back towards the center of the truck and wedge your basket between you and the side of your berth. There’s not many peas left, now, the steady work from the three of you paying off much quicker than when you’re back here by yourself, with maybe one other person who might have volunteered to assist. “Yes,” you say. “At least it is in spring.”

“Oh! Are there different versions for different seasons?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Can you sing one of those?”

“No,” you say shortly, breaking a pod open and trying to ignore the static settling in your head. You grit your teeth at Silas’ pout. “It’s bad luck.”

“An old superstition for an old song?” Peking asks.

“Yes,” you say, closing your eyes and leaning back as a particularly sharp jab of pain echoes through you. The sun has risen higher, warming as the day grows older, and when it peeks through the canopy of the trees, it is hot against your skin. 

“Perhaps you should rest,” Silas says. He says it into the kind of silence that tells you the two of them are discussing what to do - with you, you suppose - without words. 

“I’m fine,” you say, opening your eyes and sitting up straight. You lean down to pull your water from the shadowed nook you’d stashed it in. A long pull of the still cool liquid helps you shake off some of the pain. Peking makes a noise that could be dissent. You don’t look his way.

“Alright,” Silas says, his eyes wary. “I’m glad to hear it.”  


You flash him a tight smile and dump the last of the pods into your lap. They roll slightly until you grab the hem of your shirt, tucking it up to make a basket of sorts before you get back to work. You shell quickly, your fingers harsher than needed. Silas and Peking speak to each other softly about the pop-up, discussing the construction and how close they are to opening. You pretend not to notice Silas’ glances. Peking, to your relief, stays focused on his Master Attendant, offering advice in his smooth, confident voice.

It is still a long way to Hilena.

* * *

The salt breeze is one of the only things you like about the city.

Hilena is loud, a bustling metropolis full of vendors vying for your attention. The truck bounces heavily as it trundles over the cobblestones. The streets are narrow, forcing your group - ever expanding, as you picked up a few more trucks and several more ranches and farmers as you drew closer to the city - into a single file line. It feels like the buildings are pressing in on you.

Still, it’s beautiful, the arches of the city delicate and serpentine. Against the deep azure of the afternoon sky, the arches are bone white, made whiter still by the red of the gables over them. A few of the larger towers remind you of the mushrooms that sprout around your porch in the summer, white bodies and red tops, thick and rounded. The sea breeze washes away the usual stink of a city, though you know that when the tide is low, the sea will bring its own reek that even the salt can’t cover.

Lu Ren pats your hand gently as you dangle an arm through the slider. You have one cheek pressed against the glass. It’s blessedly cool. The blaze of the sun has warmed you through the trip; even Hilena’s constant breeze can’t cool you. Your head pounds.

The passenger - you really should have at least tried to learn his name - switched to one of the other trucks during a break. You eye the empty seat in the cab longingly. Lu Ren’s lips twitch as he catches your line of vision.

A vendor calls out, her voice booming, and you wince. 

Lu Ren presses the back of his hand against your cheek. His skin is cool. You sigh quietly and he laughs this time, but it’s fond. “You could have stayed home,” he reminds you.

“No,” you say softly. “I couldn’t.”

“I know.”

He nudges your cheek with a knuckle before withdrawing, returning his hand to the steering wheel. You shrink back from the slider as he makes the turn towards the ports, the truck whining at the sharp angle he yanks the wheel into.

When you settle back into your berth, you notice that Silas seems almost overwhelmed, his gaze bouncing from person to person, eyes flitting about, as if he’s drinking it all in. “Have you not been to Hilena before?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His mahogany eyes return to you. The grin he flashes is boyishly wide but handsome nonetheless. “Oh, several times,” he says, slouching back into his berth, waving one hand dismissively enough that you bite the inside of your cheek. “Not this part, though.”

“Where have you been?”

He raises one slim shoulder in a shrug. “The Guild, mostly. They have their headquarters here, after all.”

“Of course,” you mutter. You’ve only been to the Guild headquarters once, years ago, when you’d first taken issue with an airship order and the sloppiness of the operations. There’s little that interests you in returning and you suspect the Guild is glad for it. The building was stunning, light and airy with windows that let the sun stream in and ceilings so high it was almost like they weren’t there at all. 

There’s a marked difference between the Guild’s area and the sea ports.

It’s grimier here, the streets narrowing even further, almost to the point of blocking travel. When another truck comes trundling down the opposite side of the road, Silas could touch the side of it by barely extending his hand. Some of the shutters hang by a hinge. But even still, it’s cleaner than the other cities you’ve been dragged to, and the children dashing about are solidly made, their eyes bright with joy. Rafa sees you first. She jumps to her feet and dashes alongside the truck, leaping over obstacles as they come. Lu Ren yells something, but you just laugh. 

You toss her a bundle of carrots, some of the last ones from your root cellar, knowing that her mother prefers tzimmes even as the months grow hotter. “Say hello to your mother,” you call as she comes to a halt to tuck the carrots into her pouch. 

“Okay!”

“No payment?” Silas asks, looking amused.

You shrug and sit back down in your berth. “Her mother and I barter,” you say. “I owed her from last time.”

The truck shudders as a tire catches in a hole made by a missing cobblestone. There’s a woman singing to herself as she hangs the laundry to dry in the window. Her young son is beside her, his tanned face scrunched in concentration as he struggles with a clothespin. 

Silas has gone back to examining everything in sight. Peking is reading, somehow, even with the much more pronounced sway of the truck on the rougher cobblestones. He looks up, perhaps feeling your gaze, and your headache pulses as he smiles. 

“I hope you found your rest restorative,” he says.

You shrug, hardly willing to admit that you are unnerved by how easy it had been to be cradled to sleep by the bounce of the truck, curled up tightly in your berth. You’ve never slept on an airship drop before. The exhaustion had pulled you under despite yourself. You’d woken just as you’d passed into the outskirts of Hilena, the weave pattern of the basket imprinted on your cheek. 

Though you hadn’t slept for long, it has put you behind. You start to sort through your containers, affixing labels as needed and checking that the cheese has stayed cold through the long journey.

It’s not long before Lu Ren makes the turn that will take you towards the airship port. You glance back in the other direction, which would take you to the sea port, where salt coats the cobblestones and the sailors are raucous but kind. 

The steady rise of the road finally takes you over most of the buildings in Hilena. The breeze whips past, carrying the tang of salt with it. You gaze out over the ocean. It’s a deep blue under the sun, the waves catching the light.

The road widens. A few trucks pull level with Lu Ren’s. You call back to the occupants as they call out to you, trading jabs here and there, but mostly exchanging ideas about soil quality and the upcoming true spring harvest. It’s hard to hear over the noise of the city and the wind, but even Lu Ren is calling out of his window, his laughter deep and rolling. Silas’s interest is so intense you can practically hear it. It keeps him quiet, at least.

Before long, the road levels out. You pull back into the truck, calling out one last quip to Mikael, who snorts and waves you off. The airships aren’t far beyond, glinting gold in the sun, their crab shape as whimsical as it was the first time you laid eyes on the contraptions. 

It’s a bustling port, people calling out to each other left and right. It’s the cleanest port you’ve ever been in, the large docks for the airships gleaming high above. They loom large over this part of the city, those large platforms in the sky, monuments built to make landing the airships easier. Lu Ren guides his truck with the ease of practice. He heads towards your usual gate.

“I always forget how many Master Attendants come here,” Silas says, sounding delighted. He’s waving - it has a regal feel to it somehow - to a few of the passing people. Attendants he knows, you suppose.

You never forget, because the airship drop has always increased the intensity of your headaches. It’s worse this year, settling into what feels like a constant sound of fingernails against a chalkboard. You wince and set your jaw against the pain.

The truck rolls to a stop and you swing yourself over the side of it. It rattles your knees to land on the cobblestones, but right now, it feels much more preferable than brushing by Peking with how tender your nerves feel. You hear the driver’s door open. 

The tailgate of the truck opens easily under your fingers - you pretend to not notice that Silas has struggled with it until your approach, as you’ve no intention of telling him it’s a finicky old thing - and you turn away as he and Peking exit the truck bed.

Lu Ren wraps a warm hand around your wrist and tugs you closer. “Are you alright?” he asks softly. You send him a small smile, but his frown only deepens. “I’d say you should rest in the truck,” he says with a sigh, releasing your wrist, “but why bother?”

“Yes,” you laugh. “Why bother?”

A man in the airship port’s uniform steps up to the truck. You don’t recognize his face, and a quick glance around has you realizing you don’t recognize most of the port workers. The airship shake up must be farther reaching than you’d thought. Then again, the experienced port workers would have looked over the manifest and quickly seen how much unneeded pressure the order would bring. You suspect very few would have kept their mouths shut about it.

“Are you ready to be processed, sir?” the port worker asks Silas, his voice saccharine. 

Silas blinks. He looks towards you for a moment. 

“It’s not his produce,” you call out, knowing that you and Lu Ren have been taken for farm hands. “It’s ours.”

“Ah,” he says, pursing his lips. “I see. Farm names?”

You tell him. He consults his list and directs you towards one of the nearby tents. “You’ll be processed there.”

“Ah, no.”

He looks up from his clipboard. “Excuse me?”

“We’ll wait for her to be free,” you say, nodding towards Asha’s tent. You can barely see her through the throng of people surrounding her - clearly a large farm delivering - but you can hear her barking orders, even from this distance. 

“You -”

“Will wait for her to be free,” you say firmly, leaning against the truck. 

The port worker glances between you and Lu Ren for a moment. Then his gaze finds Silas and Peking, both smiling serenely, and his shoulders slump. “Very well,” he says. “Asha will process you.”

“Thanks.”

You watch him scuttle away, barking out an order to another nearby farmer. The glance you exchange with Lu Ren soothes you slightly, knowing that he’s just as perplexed by this change to the routine as you are.

“We have to stay with the produce,” you tell Silas, seeing him glancing about the port eagerly. “You don’t need to do so.”

“I’d like to see the processing system. Master Attendants just drop off our wares, usually, at the Sea Breeze Gate.”

Lu Ren elbows you gently before you can roll your eyes at the casual mention of the renowned gate. “Sure,” you say. “Not sure how informative it’ll be, though. It shouldn’t be long.”

Together, you and Lu Ren start to unload the truck, setting baskets down in your long established pattern. 

“Let us help,” Silas chirps, leaping up into the truck bed with Lu Ren.

“Ah,” you say, pausing for a moment until Lu Ren grunts at you, the basket heavy in his half-bent position. You reach up for the basket and make a noise of your own as the weight transfers to you. “You really don’t need to.”

“Nonsense,” Peking says with a smile, taking up a position next to you. He has his long braid pulled over his shoulder to keep it out of the way. Your head pulses. “Let us assist.” He barely seems to notice the weight of the basket Silas hands him. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, already trying to create a bit more space between yourself and the Food Soul. It’s a difficult thing to achieve, but the constant motion helps you avoid touching him. A few baskets in, it occurs to you that Peking won’t know your pattern, but a quick glance tells you that he’s fallen into it easily. The baskets are arranged perfectly. Peking notices the direction of your gaze and sends you a small, knowing smile.

Between the four of you, you’re done unloading by the time Asha’s tent is free. She sends over her assistants to help you with a sharp nod of her head. 

“Good to see you,” you tell Alyona as she hefts the basket directly from your arms.

“You too.” 

You follow her to the tent, one of the heavier baskets clutched against you. It goes on the table in front of Asha. She casts a critical eye over the produce - thick garlic bulbs, deeply fragrant even with their skins still on - before picking one up, her tawny skin made even darker by the white of the garlic. She breaks the bulb open and pulls a single clove from it. She crushes the clove under the broad side of a nearby knife.

Asha nods to Alyona after smelling the garlic. Alyona sweeps away with the basket, her braids swaying behind her. 

“Auntie,” you say with a laugh. “Stop putting on a show for them.”

“What did you say?” Asha asks, her voice like pebbles knocking against each other, worn smooth over the years. She looks thunderous for a moment - it manages to be intimidating despite her small stature and you think you hear Silas hiss in a uneasy breath - and then it all melts away. “Come here,” she says with a smile, pinching your cheek. “Did I see you giving that port worker trouble?”

“Only a little, Auntie.”

“To be fair, Auntie,” Lu Ren says, placing his own basket on the table, “I’m not sure he knew what he was doing.”

“None of them do,” Asha grumbles, wiping the garlic from her knife with a gnarled hand. “A perfectly fine system mucked up by those who couldn’t even tell you how it’s run. Who’s the Master Attendant?”

Silas introduces himself with a flourish and gets a raised brow in return. But Asha greets him amiably enough - for her - and turns her keen gaze to Peking. The Food Soul introduces himself much more sedately, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that matches the one in Asha’s gaze.

She makes a small, contemplative noise even as her fingers continue to brush over the produce baskets in front of her. Her fingers, knotted and slightly swollen, are nimble. “Which town?”

“Mine,” you say, wincing as your head throbs.

Asha’s eyes sharpen. “All these years of headaches and you do nothing about it. Stubborn child.”

You shrug, hearing Silas shift behind you. He murmurs something to Peking, too soft for you to make out.

Asha pulls a cucumber from the basket and presses it delicately before tossing it into a nearby compost heap. She shrugs at your scowl. You don’t bother to argue, since you’d seen the slight give of the cucumber beneath her fingers and know that it’s unlikely to survive the airship trip. She slices the top off another cucumber and cuts another small sliver. She pops it into her mouth. “Hothouse,” she says.

“They’re not in season.”

“Never tastes as good. Passable, though, for hothouse.”

“Thank you, Auntie,” you say wryly.

“Are you going to ask?” she says, signaling one of her newer assistants to stack the cucumber basket onto the dumbwaiter behind her. 

You watch the basket rise into the air. Beyond it, you can just make out the feet of the airship, resting on the grate of the dock. “Should I?”

“Prepare yourself,” Asha says shortly. “The next manifest is no different from this one. Some political nonsense got a new airship authority in place. He’s got no sense of what this is or what it means.”

“Shit,” you mutter. “How bad is the manifest?”

“It’s not good.”

Lu Ren pauses in his conversation with Alyona to better listen. 

“The new port authority hasn’t ever set foot on a farm or a ranch, as far as I can tell,” Asha says, her mouth drawn into a thin line. “Doesn’t know the work, doesn’t know the limits. Might not ever learn.”

You glance at Lu Ren. His face is practically set into stone.

“And the Guild?” he asks.

Asha’s eyes dart towards Silas for the briefest second. She shrugs and deems your baskets of peas excellent. She runs her fingers over your last basket of produce and motions it to the dumbwaiter. “Talk to the other farms,” she says. “Ranches, too. You two are some of the few who met the requirements for full payment.”

You grit your teeth. “Alright,” you say. “Thank you, Auntie.”

Asha bustles around for a moment to procure the manifest tally. You sign easily, flipping through the pages without guidance, marking her approval and weight tallies as accurate and correct. Next to you, Lu Ren does the same, his calloused hand bearing down heavily on the pen.

Alyona hands you the bag of gold you’ve earned. You tuck it into your pocket and wait for Lu Ren to do the same. 

“A good harvest for you in the coming months,” Asha says, her voice kinder than usual. 

“Thank you, Auntie.”

She waves you and Lu Ren off with a gnarled hand, but you can see the smile on her lips. 

Peking falls into step next to you. You shy away instinctively, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The buzzing in your head grows louder, sending fingers of pain through you.

“I didn’t realize you’ve been unwell for years,” he says softly.

You bristle. “They’re just headaches.”

He tilts his head, peering at you through his monocle, a gentle smile on his lips. “I meant no offense. I merely meant that it is impressive to see how dedicated you are to your work if you continue even in ill health.”

“It’s fine,” you say, softening even as you try not to do so. “The headaches come and go.”

“Have they grown stronger through the years?”

It takes effort to keep moving towards the truck. “Yes,” you say after a moment, remembering Black Tea but knowing you can’t be bothered to keep track of the lie on the tip of your tongue. 

“How unfortunate.”

Silas calls Peking’s name. He’s just ahead of the two of you, keeping pace with Lu Ren, chattering excitedly at the farmer. Lu Ren sends you a long suffering look and you glare, hoping to remind him that you’d been in the back of the truck with Silas for five hours. Even still, just as you had at the night of the dance, you notice that when Lu Ren is talking, Silas is listening intently and without interruption. 

“Pardon me,” Peking says to you with a smile. He increases his pace to draw level with his Master Attendant. 

As he draws further from you, the headache eases, just slightly. You let the brief reprieve wash over you.

“Boo.”

You jump. “Shit, Mayra,” you say, turning towards her with a scowl. “Don’t do that.”

She grins but it fades quickly, her full lips turning down slightly at the corners. “How’d it go?”

“Asha says the turnover is something political.”

Mayra swears under her breath. “And the Guild?”

You shake your head. “She wouldn’t say anything with Silas there.”

“Fuck,” Mayra says, running a hand through her hair, her calloused fingers catching in the strands as they reach the beginning of her loose braid.

“I know.”

“Redwall was short,” she says, answering your silent question. “And the fine was steeper than usual.”

“How much?”

“They took out five percent.”

You stop. “They weren’t that short,” you snap.

“I know,” Mayra says, her amber eyes sharp. “Like I said. Steeper than usual.”

“Alright,” you say grimly. “We’ll all need to discuss the next manifest. Asha says it’s a rough one.”

Mayra grumbles something under her breath. You glance at her tightening fists. “Stay away from the Guild,” you warn. “At least for now.” 

“No promises.”

“Mayra.”

She tucks her braid into the collar of her jacket, still grumbling, but gives you a nod. “Are you staying with Lu Ren tonight?” The grin she sends you has a mischievous lilt to it. 

“I don’t know,” you say. “Probably not.”

“Well,” Mayra says, “I guess I’ll find out.”

“Guess you will.” 

She laughs before jogging off towards Ji Cheng’s truck, parked in the distance.

You watch her go. She moves quickly, her stride sharpened with her anger, and you hope that no one tries to start something at the bar tonight.

Mayra disappears among the influx of farmers and ranch hands. You turn back towards Lu Ren’s truck and start to make your way towards it, shading your eyes from the sun to better make out the shadowed figures.

Lu Ren’s loading a few of the emptied baskets into the truck bed. Silas is helping, the underarms of his fine, pale shirt ringed with sweat marks, and the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You can see the muscles in his forearms working, his pale skin a stark contrast against Lu Ren’s. 

Peking has been watching them, but as you draw closer, his golden eyes shift to you. His lips draw up in that soft smile that you’ve already started to associate with him. Despite the heat of the afternoon, made all the warmer by the glinting metal reflecting the sun’s scorching rays back down, he seems perfectly at ease in his black suit. He keeps his gaze on you as you approach.

With each step closer to them - really, to him - the pounding of your head grows, and grows, and grows.

The pain is something fierce.

Yet you keep walking forward.

After all, stronger or not, the pain is nothing new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'm gonna make Peking someone else's Food Soul bc my bias is ridiculous and i should really write about someone else  
> Peking: bitch you _thought_
> 
> i _swear_ we're getting to the point where there will be more/other Food Souls aside from Peking and Black Tea's brief moment in the first chapter. Peking does serve another purpose other than just being a dick at MA's expense! i'm just having way too much fun fleshing out game mechanics like the airship into something that has "real world" potential. but as much fun as it is for me, i'm trying not to go too much into information overload (for real i could talk about airship and things like it - like Hilena and the potential economy of the city - and the impact it could have on communities for a long time)
> 
> fun fact: Mayra can and will throw hands with anyone anywhere and that includes the Guild. don't test her.


	5. the push and pull

The outdoor market is loud with quiet conversations. They flow together, building up into a chorus of noise. You bite into your crisp scallion pancake - still piping hot, wispy steam dancing upwards into the air of the swiftly cooling night - and watch as Hilena hums with life. The vendors are waving down those wandering by. The sea salt air is thick with the scent of oil. There are smiles and shouted greetings, and yet - the smiles are strained, sometimes, and the greetings fade into whispered conversations, the participants furrowing their brows. 

There’s a bitter edge to the atmosphere, something just short of acrid. It reminds you of a summer storm, when the air is thick with promise even before the clouds start to gather on the horizon. 

Paloma strides into the market like a thunderclap. She’s all crackling energy, her cloak - the pure white of sea spray, of salt crusted on pale rocks - rippling behind her. It’s exhausting just watching her.

“Shit,” you mutter, scrunching down further into the truck bed. 

Lu Ren laughs. He’s tucked against your side, a solid presence amid the babbling background noise of the people streaming by the truck. His quick eyes have found Paloma almost as fast as you did. “Don’t hide,” he chides.

“I’m not hiding.”

“Uh huh.”

You let yourself slide even closer to the truck bed floor. With a sigh, Lu Ren transfers his radish fritter to his other hand and wraps an arm around your waist, heaving you back up. You go limp in his grasp, knowing that he’s not in a position where he can maneuver your dead weight easily. He curses under his breath. You smirk.

Silas’s gaze flits between you and Lu Ren, his brow creased. “Should I ask?”

“No,” you grumble. Lu Ren has managed to pull you most of the way back up into the berth. Paloma is winding her way towards you, stopping to chat here and there with other producers in the throng of people milling about the food stalls. Her dress is the same color as her cloak and her skin, bone white; the hem of it is pristine despite the grimey cobblestones. Every time she takes a step, the white gold inlaid into the heel of her boots flashes in the light. It makes it easy to track her through the crowd, but you know better than to try and slip away. “You’ll see.”

Peking chuckles. He’s perched next to Silas, his back against the cab of the truck. You try not to look at him. “Would this perhaps be about the young woman heading in our direction?”

Silas glances over his shoulder. He has his full lower lip pinched between his teeth, and you can see his eyes darting throughout the crowd, trying to pick out the person Peking is referring to.

“Oh, call her young to her face,” Lu Ren says. “Things might go a bit smoother.”

“Optimist,” you say to him, taking another bite of your food. You wrap the pancake up in the wax paper it came in. The heat of it is comforting, somehow. It gets tucked into a nearby basket. You know it will be too cold to eat after this, but Paloma’s appearance has soured your stomach. 

He shrugs. “She likes me well enough.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“She’s just making the rounds,” Lu Ren says, nudging you gently.

“Paloma is never _just_ doing something.”

Paloma appears like a wraith from behind the nearest food stall. You’re not sure how she managed to disappear into the crowd in the first place. She comes to a stop at the edge of the truck bed, placing one slim hand on the tailgate. She gazes up at the four of you. Her eyes - the pale grey of the marine layer that rolls over the sea in the morning - trail over you and Lu Ren. She lingers on Silas and Peking, her thin lips curving into a gentle smile. “Master Attendant,” she says. Her voice is thick and heavy, all lingering smoke. 

“Evening,” Silas says. He glances towards you, gnawing on his lip. 

You take a sip of water.

“Paloma,” Lu Ren says. His hand is hot and heavy on your knee, both a comfort and a warning. “What brings you to the night market?”

“Lu Ren,” she murmurs, turning those luminescent eyes onto him. “A pleasure to see you.” Her lips twitch as she glances at you. You incline your head, just a bit, and she returns the gesture. It sends the delicate chains wound intricately through her dark, dark hair into soft chimes as they clink against each other. They’re white gold, you think, each link finely wrought, almost invisible from afar. “If I may?”

She vaults up into the truck bed at Lu Ren’s nod, her lax stance peeling away into that crackling energy she often carries like a veil. She lands next to you and settles on an overturned basket. Her dress catches on the wicker of it; she untangles it with an easy flick of her wrist. 

“I’ve heard the airship drop was perhaps not as expected,” she says, her gaze flickering between you and Lu Ren. “Is it true that the numbers are even higher for the summer’s start airship?”

You lift a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Airship manifest isn’t out yet.”

Her eyes narrow. “And yet you know.”

“I don’t know anything, Paloma.”

She settles onto the basket even more, humming to herself. “I imagine,” she says carefully, “that if the numbers are as high as they are rumored to be that it will affect the market deeply.”

“I’m not speaking about supply or prices until we have the manifest,” you say. “You know that.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Silas shift in his seat. He’s peering out into the crowds. The tilt of his head makes you suspect he is straining to hear the two of you over the hubbub of the market throngs. 

Paloma clicks her tongue, furrowing her brow. “This isn’t about prices,” she says. 

“Then what?”

“Well,” she amends, “it’s only partly about prices.”

“Merchant,” you mutter, knowing your tone makes the word a curse. 

Lu Ren digs his thumb into your knee. 

“Should there be a supply issue,” Paloma says, her pale eyes flitting about as she lowers her voice, “The Merchant’s Circle would consider discussions with the Guild. To see if we can find common ground, that is, and help ease the burden for you and yours.”

You blink. “You would consider.”

“Yes.”

“You would _consider_ talking to the Guild if there’s a supply issue,” you say slowly, your blunt nails biting into the skin of your palms. There’s heat rising into your cheeks. You draw in a deep, slow breath, and the air is tinted with sweet smoke. It makes you falter for a moment - a quick glance shows that Peking is the source, his pipe dangling from his elegant fingers, the smoke pouring from his lips like fog - and you bite down on your tongue as you remember Silas’s presence.

“Yes,” Paloma says again. Her knowing smile is all teeth. “The Merchant’s Circle is gathering later tonight - it is always such a wonderful sight, those airship lights floating up into the night sky like little stars - and that Nevras noble is in town for once, too. Won’t you come?”

“No,” you grit. Your head throbs.

“Such a shame,” Paloma sighs. “You really would be quite favored there, you know.”

“Paloma.” Lu Ren’s voice is soft and laced through with warning. 

“Don’t be jealous, now, Lu Ren. You know we would welcome you without a second thought.” She surges to her feet. Her dress bells out at the bottom; her cloak flares. The hem of the cloak is embroidered with the tiny, intricate bee of her merchant’s mark, the metallic thread catching the fading sunlight. “If you ever change your minds,” she says, bounding down from the truck, “I’m sure you can find me.”

“Good night, Paloma,” Lu Ren says firmly.

“And to you. Good night, Master Attendant,” she chirps at Silas before striding away. She pauses after a few steps and glances back over her shoulder at you. Her pale eyes glitter. “You will let the Council know when you see them tonight, won’t you?” She traipses away before you can even open your mouth, her cloak fluttering behind her like a wisp of steam.

You lean forward and rest your face in your hands. Your head pulses. “Shit,” you mutter. Lu Ren makes a sympathetic noise, rubbing his thumb over your knee before he pulls away. The shuffling noise that follows indicates that he’s stacking the baskets back together.

“What’s the Council?” There’s a timidity to Silas’s voice you haven’t heard before. When you look up, he’s fidgeting with the gold rings stacked on his pointer finger. Next to him, Peking is serene as a still pond. 

“Nothing,” you say tartly. “It’s the Merchant’s Circle thinking they’re clever.” 

“Ah,” Peking says. He has one of his ducklings on his lap. The small creature is pulling at the end of his braid with its beak, quacking quietly. Peking nudges it, his face soft with fond amusement. “I am afraid that I heard mention of the Council several times earlier at the airship port. Is there nothing by that name in Hilena?”

You blow out a breath. Lu Ren peeks at you over one of the baskets, his mouth twisted into a grim line. “It’s a nickname,” you say, picking your words warily. “Several of the regional farms and ranches meet together at times. The Merchant’s Circle started calling them the Council.”

“And it took on a life of its own, I suppose? The Council?” 

“Something like that,” you mutter, exhaustion seeping through you. “Keep that name out of your mouth.”

Peking goes unnaturally still. Your head twinges. The duckling quacks at him, butting against his hand, but the full weight of that golden gaze is on you now. “Of course,” he says after a moment, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles. “Is there a reason?”

“Yes.” You don’t bother to elaborate.

Peking’s smile tightens at your silence, his lips thinning slightly, but he inclines his head after a moment and returns his attention to the ducklings as another clambers up onto his lap. 

“Hey,” Lu Ren says, gesturing you closer. He’s leaning out of the truck bed, talking quietly to a almond-eyed young woman. You rise to your feet and join them, carefully skirting Silas’s extended feet. The ranch hand - her face might not be familiar, but the golden laurel wreath stitched into the collar of her flowing shirt is - greets you respectfully. You lean against the side of the truck, bracing yourself on your elbows.

“Your presence would be appreciated,” she says, glancing between the two of you. “We are starting to gather to discuss the drop.”

“I bet,” Lu Ren mutters, straightening up and running a hand through his ebony hair. “Usual place?”

She nods. 

“We’ll be there soon,” you tell her kindly. 

“I’ll let them know.” 

She melts back into the bustle of the market. The market is starting to show its true face, now, peering out from behind the mask of its afternoon merchants. The fishmongers and butchers have given way to food stalls and bars. There’s music, a sensual rolling drumbeat, coming from one of the buildings lining the square. An absinthe glow shines softly through the cracks of the doors. The night is only beginning, though, and you know that there will be more to see soon, some stalls glowing with life and some darkly lit, so that the patrons would not recognize each other on the streets.

The night market has always been a multi-faced beast, its facade flickering into something new for each patron. It’s a creature that even the Guild can’t quite corner. The market lingers on the far edge of some of the wealthier neighborhoods, near enough to tempt yet far enough for the Guild to dismiss it more easily. They’ve grown weary of trying to curb some of the darkest exchanges with nothing to show for their efforts. In the end, though, the night market governs itself, and even the most ghoulish nooks - the ones only open if you know where to look and when, where it’s best not to touch anything without gloves and the air is heavy with malignant ideas - are held to the market’s particular brand of justice. 

It’s a place you’ve never fully understood, though you learned to navigate it long ago. There’s something about it, this pulsing underbelly of Hilena, that reminds you of weeds growing up between the spaces of the cobblestones. There’s a entire root system below. The true night market - tame enough to touch but always on the cusp of biting - is just the beginning of the Hilena-that-isn’t. 

You watch people scurry by, leaning heavily on the edge of the truck. The scent of charring meat floats to you, only partially obscured by Peking’s smoke. The street lights have flickered to life; the dim glow of them casts shadows on the faces of those passing by, morphing their features into something else. You straighten at Lu Ren’s gentle touch. 

“Let’s go,” he says, draping your jacket over your shoulders. “They’ll be waiting.”

“Sure.”

Lu Ren hops down from the truck. He disappears towards the front and you hear the driver’s door squeak open. 

“A Council meeting?” Peking asks. You grit your teeth.

“Peking,” Silas hisses softly.

The Food Soul hums, tapping his pipe against his lips. “Ah, yes,” he says. “My apologies. A gathering of the regional farms and ranches?” There might be a mocking edge to his benign smile. You can’t quite tell.

“Of a sort.”

Silas leaps to his feet. “Excellent,” he says, all traces of his earlier nervousness evaporating. “I think it will be quite educational.”

You pause in the midst of shrugging your jacket on. “You said you were going to the-” you catch yourself just in time, choking back the slightly derogatory slang most use for the Master Attendants’ airship celebration. Silas seems to miss it. Peking, from the arch of his eyebrow, does not. “I thought you were joining the other Master Attendants at the Sea Breeze Gate.”

Silas waves a careless hand. “This seems more fun.”

You cannot get a grasp on the tides of his confidence, cannot yet make sense of the ebb and flow of his arrogance. It’s not something you’re sure you want to learn. “It seems more fun.” It’s hard to keep the acid from your voice. There’s a short jab of pain behind your left eye.

“Yes,” he says. “There’s not much change at our celebration. I’d like to see something new.”

You inhale through your nose and blow the breath out through your mouth, willing yourself to remember that he doesn’t understand. “This is our livelihood,” you say softly. “It’s not a show.”

Silas pales. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, matching your hushed tone. He runs a hand through his hair. The silver of it has shifted colors again. Edged with moonlight, it fades into a soft periwinkle. “I just-I just want to learn.”

“Then this is a good place to start.” You can’t help but relent a little at the sight of the distressed twist of his features “Our farms, our ranches - these are our lives. The crops built us a home, a community. Remember that.” 

Silas nods, biting his lip.

“Besides,” you say. “It’s not an open meeting.”

Silas wilts.

“Come now, Attendant,” Peking says kindly, though his eyes are on you. Your head buzzes. “You know very well that there are companions waiting for you at the Sea Breeze Gate. You cannot be remiss in your duties.”

Silas whines something under his breath, but you’re already turning away. You hop down from the truck bed as Lu Ren strides towards you. His expression indicates that he’s heard every word. The tilt of his lips is a question. You wave off his concern with a gentle smile and start walking farther into the hubbub of the night market.

“Have a good night,” you call back to Silas and his Food Soul. Peking inclines his head, that smile playing at his lips. Silas, still looking perturbed, echoes the sentiment.

The crowd swallows you and Lu Ren. You keep pace with each other easily, weaving through the throng of people. Slowly, the night market fades into one of the dock yard neighborhoods. There are lights shining through cracked windows. The salt is more prevalent here, as you draw closer to the sea, the white of it streaked against the scuffed cobblestones. 

It’s a route the two of you know well, and you chatter quietly as your feet carry you to your destination. The night air has gone cold, the breeze whipping the chill off of the sea and depositing it in the city.  


The doorman waves you inside the bar without a word. Inside, the bar is warm despite the splintered shutters. There’s a fire dancing merrily in the hearth. The dockworkers - both airship and port - are murmuring in small groups, faces flushed with alcohol. You quickly spot Mayra’s shining mass of dark hair in the far corner. Her back is to you; you note where she is and know you’ll come back to her.

Lucretia spots you from behind the bar and jerks her head towards the wooden door tucked away just next to the kitchen’s entrance. You wave a lazy thanks in her direction, and the two of you make your way there. Your soft knock grants you quick entrance. 

The small room is made smaller still by the amount of people crammed into it. Where the bar had been warm, this room is sweltering, the damp heat of the air settling onto your skin. There’s a window cracked open. The breeze is too slight to make much of a difference. You let your eyes scan the attendees, all familiar, all looking pensive in some way, and you settle onto a nearby stool. 

Lu Ren touches your shoulder softly. When you glance towards him, he nods to your left. Liu Yang is lounging on a chaise, her stout form sprawled inelegantly. It does little to impact her dignity, which is always settled over her like a cloak. She nods to you and returns to her conversation with one of the beekeepers. 

Ryou appears at your other side and presses a beer into your hand. It’s delightfully cold, and you resist holding it against the side of your neck. “You staying?” he asks Lu Ren.

Lu Ren shakes his head - Liu Yang can represent his town and the smaller villages around it better than he can - and gives you a soft smile. The door clicks shut behind him; a few others filter out as well. 

Ryou’s knuckles are white around the neck of his beer bottle. Sonja, a rancher still learning the ropes of her trade, hand you both a copy of the manifest tally. Her smile is flimsy at best. 

A quick scan of the tally confirms your suspicions. While the mass total of the manifest was met, most farms and ranches fell behind their numbers. Gold Tree had pushed enough product to force the ranch-wide numbers to be met; a few of the midsize farms had just enough to do the same for the farms. 

There’s only a handful of farms from your area that make their numbers. You and Lu Ren are prominent on the list, as is Liu Yang. You had already known that Redwall had fallen short, but you’re surprised to see that Heritage is the only ranch from your caravan to meet their quota. 

The numbers are bleak. They have been this whole time, if you’re honest with yourself, ever since the manifest came late in the sowing season with a quota so high even the oldest farms murmured about mistakes. It’s a jarring fall from the bumper crop of last autumn.

Anjali clears her throat softly. She’s leaning against the far wall, her strong arms crossed over her stocky figure. “As you have seen,” she says, “the airship drop was difficult.” Her dark eyes flit over the gathered people. Her gaze is always keen. Tonight it is that much sharper, picking out those shifting in the crowd and hushing them without a word.

“Unfortunately, it appears that the new airship authority is on a learning curve.” Someone snorts. Anjali ignores it. “The new manifest may be delayed.”

The knot forming in your stomach tightens. 

“Will the drop date stay the same if the manifest is delayed?”

“Yes,” Anjali says, her dark eyes flickering with contained anger. “The date will not change.”

“Shit,” Ryou says behind you, picking at the label of his beer with his blunt fingernails. “It’s like they’re trying to fuck us.” 

You reach out and grab his wrist, squeezing in warning. 

“The numbers may be similar to the ones from this time. Plan for it.” 

“And the Guild?”

“The airship authority doesn’t answer to the Guild,” Liu Yang says with a grunt. “At least not on paper.”

“The Guild is waiting too,” Anjali says, throwing Liu Yang a slit-eyed glare. “The manifest for Master Attendants isn’t out yet either.”

“It’ll be out sooner than ours,” Ryou mutters.

You hum, your eyes on Anjali. She’s a weather-worn woman, with features that could have been hewn from stone. Gold Tree has flourished under her tight rein. The ranch is an old one, generations deep, with little to prove and much knowledge to give. She’s driven it to an even higher standing than it already had. The Guild respects her, you know, and it’s a respect sorely needed. For an organization that requires fresh, ripe ingredients, the Guild seems to pay little attention to the needs and the mindset of the farming and ranching community.

Then again, you suppose, the same could be said about the Guild and how much attention they pay to the poorest of Master Attendants, the ones who summon Food Souls but can barely even afford a sack of potatoes. Those Master Attendants are a rare sight for your town, but you know there are many of them throughout Gloriville and the other kingdoms.

“The Guild will assess after the manifest has been released,” Anjali says. “But start planning now.”

The room is filled with grumbling, but Anjali has already moved on. She speaks briefly about a few other things - you’re only half listening, mostly watching the snowfall of paper drifting from Ryou’s busy fingers - before a sharp wave of her hand indicates that she’s finished. There’s a sweeping wave of conversation as most break into smaller groups. Some are by trade - ranch, apiary, farm - while yet other groups fall along regional lines.

Liu Yang eyes you but is swept into a conversation with one of the ranch managers for Gold Tree. 

A few people wander over to Ryou, giving him a clap on the back and some words of encouragement that makes him set his jaw. You know it burns to fall short, but it’s inevitable. Still, you fall into the conversation easily enough. You keep an eye on Anjali, and from the sidelong glance you get in return, she knows you are waiting.

The discussion is dominated by the next airship drop. The first airship of summer is often the most difficult one, coming close on the heels of the early spring drop. There’s little time to plan and even less time to actually grow. From the comments, everyone is nervous. 

Anjali catches your eye. 

You bid your group goodbye and wind through the crowd to her. Peri joins you, his wide mouth set into a frown. 

“You did well,” he notes, his voice high and fluting.

You shrug. “I met my quota.”

“And with some produce left, if I understand correctly.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve always planned well,” Anjali says, taking a long pull of her beer. “Setting your percentage low helps with that, of course.”

“It does,” you agree, rolling your beer bottle between your hands. “It’s not for everyone, though.”

Peri hums his agreement. He’s swirling his tumbler of whiskey steadily, the amber liquid sloshing in the glass. He has delicate fingers, but they’re hard with callouses.

“Paloma came to me,” you say quickly, eager to be out of the room and with your friends. 

Anjali shifts. There’s still a smile playing at her lips, but she reminds you of a big cat, ready to strike at any given moment. “And what does the White Merchant say?”

“She wanted to know the numbers for the next airship.”

“She assumed Asha would give them to you,” Peri says, sipping at his drink.

“Yes.”

“And did she?” Anjali asks.

You shake your head. “Nothing specific,” you say. “She said that it was like this one.” She’d said it again later, too, when she met you under the shadow of the Azure Gate to hand you some of the compost pile she’d saved. There’d been a paper tucked into the basket of produce, too, and you hand it to Anjali.

She scans it, lips pursed, and hands it over to Peri.

He mumbles to himself as he reads it. He asks if he can keep it, sharing a look with Anjali.

“Of course,” you say. He folds the scrap of paper - scribbled thick with what are likely potential numbers for the summer airship, something Asha probably plucked off some unlucky port worker’s desk - up and tucks it into his wallet.

“What else?” Peri asks, leaning against the table with one bony hip. “The airship manifest would have been her most obvious goal, but that woman never has just one goal.”

“Should there be a supply issue, the Merchant’s Circle would consider speaking to the Guild on our behalf. She asked me to inform the Council when I saw them tonight.”

Peri’s eyes narrow. Anjali mutters a quiet curse.

“We can expect nothing from the Merchant’s Circle, then, until it begins to affect them more deeply,” she mutters. 

“It will,” you point out. “Most of us only sell what produce isn’t promised to the airship drop. Paloma knows that. She’s worried.”

“She should be,” Peri grumbles, tapping his fingers against his tumbler. 

“They’ll want us to be a formal group instead of what we are,” Anjali says, clearly having honed in on the use of the Council title above all else. The Merchant’s Circle helping only at their whim is nothing new. “We’d have to play by their rules, then.”

Peri nods. His dark eyes flicker to you.

“She chose you to tell.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why?”

You shrug. “Why does Paloma do anything?”

“To gain something.”

Anjali’s eyes glitter. “Try and make sure she doesn’t gain anything from you,” she says. “She chose you because of Asha, most likely.”

“Probably,” you agree, but you also assume that Paloma will have approached others. The words she might have used would be different, but the underlying message would remain the same. The White Merchant rarely leaves things to chance if she can avoid it.

“Thank you,” Anjali says. “We’ll discuss it.”

You nod and slip away as she turns to whisper something in Peri’s ear. You’re grateful she hasn’t asked for more. Paloma has always been clear in her intent to drag you into politics; you don’t think you could avoid it if Anjali started pulling too.

Ryou is smiling as he chats with a group of ranch hands. It’s the first lift in his spirits you’ve seen all night. You opt to leave him to it. A few people catch you on your way out of the room, some offering congratulations and others asking advice. 

When you finally step out of the door, the moving air of the bar feels like a cool breeze on your face. You pull in a deep breath and crack your knuckles. 

Lu Ren is at the bar. Lucretia is talking to him. From her animated gestures, she’s probably telling him about the strawberries she successfully germinated in the hothouse over the winter. As you draw closer, it’s clear you’re correct. She’s gushing over the formation of the seedlings. For someone with a black thumb, it’s a true accomplishment.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead between Lu Ren’s shoulder blades with a sigh. You can feel the heat of his skin even through his shirt. It reminds you of the morning sun, gentle and warm.

His laugh rumbles through you.

“That bad?” he asks.

“Tired,” you say, closing your eyes and pressing harder against him. The buzzing in your head had faded earlier, but it’s bloomed back into being. You set your jaw against it.

Lu Ren moves; you can feel the shift of his muscles against you, the push and pull of them. He nudges you away. The bottle of beer he hands you is slick with condensation. Unlike earlier, you don’t resist the temptation. The icy bite of the cool bottle against your neck feels like heaven. Even the drops of condensation that roll down your neck to wet your shirt don’t bother you.

Lu Ren laughs again, low and soft. “C’mon,” he says, herding you away from the bar. You protest for a moment - you haven’t even spoken to Lucretia yet - but she waves you off with a grin. Lu Ren calls a goodbye back to her.

He chivvies you forward. You’re barely paying attention, your eyes half-mast as you roll the bottle to the other side of your neck. The wet patch left behind is starting to dry out. It should cool you nicely, but the heat just won’t leave you. There’s sweat gathering at the back of your neck. A droplet rolls down your spine. You wipe at your hairline, smearing the sweat that’s gathering there too.

The bar has a few more windows open than the private room. You pause at one of them; the sea breeze billows over you, the damp skin cooling quickly at the touch of the wind. Lu Ren tugs you along after a moment. You can hear Mayra already. Someone answers her in a whip crack voice, loud without trying. It’s familiar in a way that’s just out of your reach. There’s still sweat beading on your brow. Your shirt feels like it’s trapping heat against you. Your head buzzes.

The two of you round the corner - apparently your friends have commandeered an entire section of the bar - and Mayra greets you with a smile that fades, just a little, when she sees you. Honey calls out to you, her loud voice filled with sunshine.

You don’t notice either of them, not really.

There’s something like sorrow in Black Tea’s crimson eyes as she meets your gaze. There’s another one of Honey’s Souls - Orange Juice, you think - perched next to her. Orange Juice tilts her head in your direction, her rivers of orange hair swaying with the movement.  


Across the table from them, Peking looks up from his conversation with Silas, a smile flirting at the edge of his lips.

You stumble. Lu Ren catches you easily, murmuring something you don’t quite process. A drop of sweat slithers down your spine.

You’re beginning to wish you’d stayed home after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absolutely no one:  
> no one at all:  
> me: throws some deeply indulgent world building out onto the internet
> 
> (honestly tho every time i say i'm worldbuilding i sweat bc like maybe that's just in my head)
> 
> also my name's bee and i have an em dash problem
> 
> finally getting some real Food Soul interaction next chapter (we're not counting Peking bc he doesn't deserve it)!
> 
> i'm still having a lot of fun, so i hope you are too! i do so appreciate every hit, kudos, and comment! i know this is a pretty slow burn lol


	6. under a lonely moon

“I didn’t think you did airship drop,” you say to Honey, trying to ignore the feeling of a few drops of sweat trickling down your spine, rolling slow and wet over your skin. 

You’re sandwiched between her and Mayra at the table. Mayra has her arm draped over the back of your chair as she chats lazily with Peking and Silas. You press back just slightly, enough to feel her solidly against you, and remind yourself to breathe. The buzzing in your head has graduated to true throbs of pain, the sensation licking through you when you least expect it. 

“This is my first time,” Honey says, beaming at you. “Haven’t been able to afford it before.”

“Congrats,” you say. “That’s a big accomplishment.” The airship drop is different for Master Attendants, you know, but it still isn’t easy. You’ve only known a handful of Attendants that find it feasible. You suppose you can add Silas to that list - he’s far too familiar with the Master Attendant’s drop to not have completed it at least a few times - which is utterly unsurprising. 

“It is!” 

You wince. Honey has a voice like thunder, something soft and rolling deep at the edges when she’s calm, but rising into a sharp crack of noise when she’s excited. The sound of it arrows through you. 

“Shit, you’re loud,” Mayra says cheerfully, leaning over you to look at Honey.

“Ah! Sorry!”

Mayra laughs, the sound throaty and full bodied. “It’s fine,” she says. “Life is loud sometimes.” She squeezes your shoulder softly, a silent inquiry. 

You flick your fingers subtly. She lets her hand drop away from your shoulder - the fabric of your shirt stays suctioned in place for a moment, damp against your heated skin - and takes a long pull of her beer.

You close your eyes as the others pick up their conversations again. Mayra’s asking Honey about what she made for the airship, along with peppering her with logistical questions about how they get the food to stay fresh. There’s a sharp burst of pain in your left temple that feels like a nail being pushed through your skin. You grit your teeth, tightening your grip on your beer bottle until you can feel the strain in your tendons.

When you open your eyes, Orange Juice is watching you. She smiles kindly when your gazes meet. She’s moved from the farthest end of the table where she’d settled with Black Tea - it has not escaped you that this is also the furthest point from you - and is perched just on the other side of Mayra. Her eyes are a softer orange than her hair; they remind you of early sunset, when the orange streaked across the sky is still dappled with the white of the clouds. From her soft, sad smile, you have not hidden as well as you had hoped.

“I need some fresh air,” you mutter, feeling the air of the bar wrap around you, hot like dragon’s breath. You wipe your clammy palms on your pants as you stand. You wobble, just a bit, before finding your footing again. Lu Ren’s eyes flicker to you, but he only pauses for a few seconds before answering Silas’s questions.

You slip away from the table. It takes you a little longer to get to the front door; several workers, dock and farm alike, call out to you. 

Stepping out into the brisk night air is like a balm. 

Hilena cools deeply at night, the chill rising off the ocean and carried into the city by the wind. The salt air whirls by you in a fierce breeze, the edges of it tugging at your shirt. You relax into it.

The doorman nods to you as you head towards the side of the bar, eyeing the little niche half covered by the extended roof, walled off on three sides by trellises. The bougainvillea is already flowering, the small flowers bright, the sunshine color of them darkened to goldenrod in the night. They wind tall around the half-rotted trellis. You duck into the small alcove and lean back against the wall, closing your eyes. 

You can feel the sea breeze playing softly across your face, sending small wisps of hair dancing against your forehead. Your shirt is suctioned against you in some places. You peel the material away with a grimace, slipping a hand between the small of your back and the fabric to try and let the breeze dry it. The wind licks up your spine, raising the fine hairs at the nape of your neck, but there’s still sweat beading on your brow. 

Your head pulses. It’s softer now, but you still groan.

“Is it easier if I maintain a certain distance?” Black Tea asks. The tap of her heels - they echo through the cramped street, the strike against the cobblestones audible even over the noise filtering out from the bar - halts.

You open one eye to peer at her. 

“I don’t think it matters much at this point,” you tell her.

“I suppose not,” she says, drawing closer, her crimson eyes serious. Like many Food Souls, she has a beauty to her that both draws the eye and distracts it, as if it would ache to look too long at her. “Your friends are worried.”

“I’m sure.”

“I am not without concern as well,” she says.

“Kind of you.” You tilt your head back and gaze up at the night sky through the gaps in the bougainvillea. It’s a waning moon tonight, the crescent soft at the edges. The stars have given way beneath Hilena’s light pollution. It makes the moon look lonely. 

You can hear Black Tea moving; the edge of her voluminous skirt brushes against your shins. It sounds like she settles against the trellis across from you. For a moment, the two of you stand in silence.

“It must be very painful,” she says softly. 

“It can be,” you say, sucking in a breath to stave off what feels uncomfortably like the start of tears. There’s something unbearably gentle in Black Tea right now. It’s almost tender. It makes you ache.

“You said it had been years, the last time we met.”

“Yes.”

“Can you even remember what it was like to live without pain?”

You pull your eyes away from the moon, your breath catching in your chest. Black Tea is nestled in the bougainvillea, the golden flowers snagging in some of her hair and on her hat. Her crimson eyes gleam in the low light of the street lamps. 

“I apologize,” Black Tea says, clearly seeing something in your expression. “I overstepped my boundaries.”

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it isn’t. The question sinks in slowly. You turn it over and over in your head before tucking it away. 

“Would it be so terrible?” Black Tea asks gently. “To have one of us at your side?” 

You pull your lower lip between your teeth, considering. “It’s complicated.”

“Things often are, with humans.”

“I just-” You fall silent, swallowing the words back down. You owe her no explanation, you know, but there’s a part of you that wants to provide it all the same. 

Black Tea sighs. “I can only ask you to consider it,” she says. “Your Soul has waited for a long, long time now.”

The two of you stand in silence. There’s a sudden shout of laughter from the bar’s entrance, someone rumbling with joy. 

“What is it like?” you ask.

“You’ll need to clarify,” Black Tea says, her lips tilting up into a slight smile.

“Before you’re summoned. What is it like?”

Her smile fades. “It is different for all of us,” she says. “By this time, many of us remain in the world after a Contract is broken and are summoned from there. If we have not remained in the world because our Soul Power has faded, there is a certain emptiness that cradles us - it is difficult to explain. Humans, I fear, cannot quite understand.”

You shred the damp label of your beer bottle, the scraps of paper drifting from your fingers like snow flurries. The sea breeze picks up once more. You shiver beneath its fingers, goosebumps rising like a tide and rolling across your warm body. 

“Come,” Black Tea says. “Your friends will be waiting.” She pushes off of the trellis. One of the small flowers comes away with her, stuck in her hair. She doesn’t seem to notice. 

“In a moment,” you say. “Please.”

She considers you. Her eyes - striking eyes, inhuman eyes, deep carmine set into her porcelain face, eyes that make you think of tales of old, of blood-red skies and fallen stars - are keen. “Of course.”

She steps away, her heels clicking against the cobblestones sharply. You watch her dress ripple with her movement, the soft material flowing like a waterfall around her slim frame.

“Black Tea?”

She glances back at you, her hat shadowing her face. You suck in a soft breath at those eyes shining faintly from the shadows. The edges of her features have gone blurry, as if you’re viewing them from underwater. “Does Honey know?”

She tilts her head; the golden flower caught in her hair flutters free. You watch it drift to the dirty cobblestones.

“No,” she says. 

You release the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me,” Black Tea says. “Master Attendant has not asked me about you. If she does, I will not lie to her.”

You bite your lip. She waits for a moment before continuing on. She disappears around the corner of the bar, but you can still hear her heels clicking until that too fades away.

You slump back against the wall. The wood scrapes at you through your clothing, just slightly, the edges of it splintered by the years of exposure to the elements and the salt. The sweltering heat of the bar seems to have left you, though it still lingers at the edges, like you’ve stepped out of range of a fire in the hearth after standing there for too long.

“Hey, you okay?” 

“Fuck!” you yelp. You look towards the corner of the bar. “Dammit, Atuat,” you hiss. “My heart almost stopped.”

“Sorry,” she says with a shrug, leaning against the side of the building. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay, Jed told me he’d seen you sneak into the alcove when I took over, so you’ve been back here awhile. Saw the Food Soul - what’s her name? - leave but you didn’t.”

“Go guard the door or whatever it is you’re supposed to do,” you say crossly, leaning down to pick up the beer bottle you’d dropped. “I’m coming.”

“It’s almost like you don’t want me to let you back in,” she singsongs. “Should really be nicer.”

“Atuat, I swear.” But there’s a small smile creeping over your lips. From the pleased expression on Atuat’s face, she sees it.

She smiles back and pops out of sight. 

You tuck your bottle under your arm and pull off two small flowers from the trellis. The petals are waxy, sticky-slick against your fingertips. You roll the small stems between your fingers gently.

Atuat is sitting on the stool by the bar’s door as you wander up. The stool looks like doll furniture under her. “Thanks,” you say, reaching over to tuck the flower into her tight bun. She stoops slightly so you can reach more easily. 

“Anytime.”

You head into the bar; the heated air rolls over you as soon as you step through the door. You inhale through your nose and push the air back out. Your head reminds you of a hornet’s nest, a low, threatening hum threading through it, the pitch rising with each step. 

Lu Ren is the first to see you as you wind your way back towards the table. It’s considerably more crowded than it was when you left, several more people squished in. Lu Ren beckons to you. There’s a gap between him and Peking. It’d be tight, but you could probably fit. Peking sees you too. He smiles at you softly, his eyes shining behind his monocle. 

Peking shifts over - even at a crowded table, he moves with an unnatural sort of grace - to create even more space for you. You fidget with the remaining flower, taking a slow step forward.

Lu Ren arches a brow. ‘Just a second,’ you mouth. 

Mayra’s easy enough to spot. Her hair is piled high on her head, pinned in place with what looks like a cow’s ear tag, bright blue against the dark shine of her hair. She’s shed her jacket and has her sleeves rolled up on her forearm. Next to her, Honey looks enthralled, winding a strand of her blonde hair tighter and tighter around a small finger as she watches Mayra banter with the other ranch hands.

“Hey,” you say.

“Oh, good,” Mayra says cheerfully, breaking away from her argument with the ranch hand at her side - Henrich, you think - and smiling at you. “You’re back.”

She shoves Henrich off his chair with one hand and hands you a glass of wine with her other. 

“Fucks’ sake, Mayra!” Henrich snarls, pushing himself upright on the floor. There’s a burst of snickers around the table, a few of the other dock workers leaning over to better see. Silas looks aghast, one long hand pressed against his chest.

“Seat’s taken,” Mayra says amiably, leaning over Henrich, her elbows on her knees and her hands loose. “Good to see you, though.” She reaches out to him.

Henrich rolls his eyes but clasps her hand. Mayra hauls him up to his feet. “You’re terrible,” he says, but he claps her on the back before heading towards one of the other tables.

“You really are a horror,” you tell her.

“I know.” 

She pulls out the chair, so you slide into it and set your wine down on the table. ‘Sorry,’ you mouth to Lu Ren. 

‘All good,’ he mouths back, clearly biting down on a laugh. 

You greet the newcomers - many of them airship port workers, though apparently, most of them are now dock workers after the reshuffle - and lean over to tuck the remaining bougainvillea flower into Mayra’s hair. “The champion’s crown,” you say seriously. “An ungallant battle, but a champion nonetheless.”

“Victory is sweet,” Mayra says.

You tuck the flower into the hole of the cow tag after it fails to stay put in Mayra’s ever shifting mass of hair. 

“You good?” Mayra asks quietly as the conversation shifts into a discussion of the upcoming weather patterns. She presses closer to ask and you try not to flinch at the increase of heat, already feeling sweat dampening the nape of your neck once more.

“Yeah. Just needed some fresh air.”

She pats you on the back and turns back to Honey. You take a sip of the wine she’d given you as one of the dock workers - Aarav, aged by the sea winds and the unrelenting sun but glowing with kindness - pulls you into the conversation with a quick question about the crop yield variance. 

Time passes. Your head simmers, the ache deep, spiking slightly whenever any of the Food Souls come a bit closer. But still, the ebb and flow of people at your table keeps the air moving, keeps it from being a suffocating layer of heat, and the conversations flow too. One of the workers tells you about a new type of fruit they’ve seen that they think might grown in this region. They promise to bring you back a packet of seeds the next time they go to sea. Others prod at the airship, their mouths drawn into grim lines when you tell them. They miss it, you learn, not that it’s a particular surprise. Many of them have worked the airship port for years upon years before being unceremoniously dropped at the first question about the manifest numbers. You grit your teeth but know there’s little you can do.

Honey chimes in too, surprisingly raucous, her blue eyes gleaming with laughter. She asks questions about the methods the former port workers had seen during their time packing airships - “it just doesn’t seem like there’s much point of it, if I’m honest, sending these frozen meals out like they’ll be as good as they were fresh!” - as she tries to decide if airship is worth it for her. Black Tea and Orange Juice are both watching her with such deep fondness that you have to look away.

You’re leaning against Mayra, fanning yourself with a limp hand, only half-listening to Honey as she talks about the next few recipes she wants to try. Lu Ren has migrated to your other side; his thumb is rubbing soft circles on your knee. Your head is pulsing. The exhaustion sweeps over you like a tide, settling into your bones. You muffle a yawn in the back of your hand. It doesn’t escape either of them.

“C’mon,” Mayra says, her dark eyes sharp. “Let’s head back for the night.”

“It’s still early,” you protest, looking at your half-finished wine.

“I refuse to die because it was ‘too early’ and you overtaxed your own dumb ass,” Mayra says. “And don’t give me that look, you know very well how Ari can be. Not risking it.”

“She’s right,” Lu Ren says. “It’s not an early morning tomorrow, but it’s not a late one either. Let’s go.”

“Fine.”

“Please don’t-” Lu Ren cuts himself off with a sigh as you scull your glass of wine. Mayra just laughs.

“Calling it a night?” Aarav asks, his face slightly flushed with alcohol.

“Yeah,” Mayra says, standing with a stretch, her lean form rippling with muscle. “Going back tomorrow.”

“Always such a short trip.”

Mayra shrugs. “Farms and ranches don’t run themselves.”

You get to your feet as well, bidding quiet goodbyes to the table. The others of your little group - Silas and Peking relocated to a table just a few steps away a while ago, but they’re already gathering their things at the sight of your table starting to disperse - head towards the door. 

It takes you, Mayra, and Lu Ren several minutes to complete a circuit of the bar to bid everyone good night. Anjali nods to you from a shadowed corner where she and Peri are having a hushed discussion with a few of the other big name farms and ranches. 

Lucretia presses a cold bottle of water into your hand when the three of you wander up to say goodbye. “I’m not drunk,” you tell her, well used to her gifting method as a bribe to sober up.

“Didn’t say you were. Just kept seeing you pour your water onto a napkin and pressing it against yourself. Thought you should actually drink some.”

“Thanks,” you say dryly. Lucretia snorts as you hold the cold bottle against the side of your neck, enjoying the soothing chill against your skin.

The others are waiting just outside when the three of you exit. There’s a brief pause as Lu Ren and Mayra shrug their jackets on. You keep your jacket draped over your arm. The night air is as blessedly cool on your skin as it was earlier. 

Your quiet chatter rises and falls as you traverse the streets of Hilena. It’s early enough that there are still plenty of people on the street, some wandering from bar to bar. There’s a few hurrying back from the night market, discreet packages tucked just under their coats.

“This is me,” Honey says cheerfully, coming to a stop at one of the crossroads.

Black Tea and Orange Juice approach you as Honey says her goodbyes to the others. The three of you back away from the group, just slightly. Both of them watch you carefully. 

“Please consider summoning,” Black Tea says softly. “You might find yourself surprised.” 

Honey calls out to her, and Black Tea glides away with only a small glance back at you.

Orange Juice smiles at you. She’s a charming woman, you’d found, watching those at the table earlier be caught up in her easy chatter. She’d kept her distance from you, though.

“I don’t think we can sway you,” she says with a little laugh. “Not if you’ve been this stubborn about it.”

You glance over her shoulder to the rest of the group. Honey is talking animatedly to Mayra, a direct contrast to Black Tea’s stern figure at her side. 

“Has it always been like this?”

“What?”

“Has it always been the same Soul?”

“I don’t know,” you say, fidgeting and glancing over her shoulder again. Peking looks up from his discussion with Silas and Lu Ren, perhaps sensing your gaze. He sends you a soft smile, but his golden eyes are curious. “In the early months, the call would come and go.”

“Ah, multiple Souls, then!” she chirps. “They let you go when you didn’t answer the call, those first few Souls.”

“Is that what that was? I thought maybe, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Yup! Now though - my, they are a stubborn one, aren’t they? You’re well matched.”

You shift, twisting your jacket tighter around your arm. “Orange Juice, please-”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you nervous,” she says. “I just meant that they chose you. That’s why they’re hanging on. They just want you to acknowledge them.”

You swallow.

“Ah!” she says, fluttering her hands. “Oh, I’m sorry, I said I didn’t think we could sway you but I couldn’t help but try. I understand, though.”

“You do?”

“Not entirely,” she admits cheerfully. “But I understand it’s your choice to make.”

“Thank you,” you say. “It is.”

She hums, the sound high and fluting. “Take care,” she says. “And good luck.”

“Thanks,” you say again, lagging slightly behind her as the two of you rejoin the group.

Honey turns to you with a beaming smile. “I’ll see you in a month for the late harvest?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Looking forward to it. Oh! Can you save me-”

“Master Attendant,” Black Tea says.

Honey flushes. “Oh, sorry. I’ll call you with a list?”

“That sounds perfect,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. “I look forward to it.”

“Great. Good night!”

You murmur a soft farewell. They set off down the street, Honey’s tiny frame dwarfed as her Souls settle on either side of her.

The five of you set off again. Peking falls into step with you, slowing his stride. You shrink into yourself slightly as his arm brushes against you. 

“You have quite the reputation,” he says softly, peeking at you through his monocle. “It wasn’t hard to see that you were committed to your farm, but I didn’t quite expect this level of skill.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly.

He chuckles. “Apologies, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Came off that way all the same, though.” It’s more acrid then you mean to be. Peking’s lips flatten in a thin line for an instant. There’s a sudden sting of pain behind your left eye. It melts away as quickly as it came. “Sorry,” you murmur, scrubbing a hand over your face. “I’m tired.”

“I understand,” Peking says. “I imagine this has been a trying day.”

“A bit.”

He nods in understanding and allows silence to fall, though he stays by your side.

It doesn’t take long before you reach the road to the night market. It’s a small, nondescript street, but there’s a familiar emblem tucked into a shallow niche. The tiny, intricately painted face stares out at you, barely visible from the street, the leering grin shadowed in the moonlight. It’s a relic from years past. A compass of sorts when the market wasn’t as adept at changing its face - just a quick huff of warm breath against the paint and it will fade into a grinning demon, the bulging yellow eyes leering towards where the market hides. 

The group comes to a halt just before the niche. Lu Ren glances at you, his dark eyes warm and evaluating. For a moment, you consider it, and you can see that he does too. He shakes his head with a sigh and offers you a small, soft smile. “Goodnight,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning, then,” you say. 

“You two go with him,” Mayra says, shooing Silas and Peking towards Lu Ren. “He’ll get you set up.”

Lu Ren sighs. “Thank you, Mayra,” he grumbles. “C’mon, you two.”

“Wait, what?” Silas asks, glancing between the two of you and Lu Ren. He sends you a pleading look. You shrug, knowing it’d be unfair for someone of his status to stay at Pi’s when there would be someone else who needed the room and couldn’t afford another.

“I’ll explain,” Lu Ren says. “Let’s go, truck is this way.”

“Goodnight!” Mayra says cheerfully. 

“Good-goodnight?” Silas stutters, half-stumbling after Lu Ren as the farmer starts up the road.

“Goodnight,” Peking says as well, amusement threaded through his voice. He inclines his head and turns to follow Lu Ren and Silas. His long braid sways behind him.

“Let’s go,” Mayra says.

“Sure.”

The two of you stumble into Pi’s not long after. Mayra shrugs both of your bags off - she’d refused to let you carry yours, even though it barely weighed anything - and gives you yours. She leans over the counter and pushes aside the registration folder to hook her fingers into the hidden key. She hands it to you and gestures you upstairs. “Go,” she says when you dawdle. “I’ll let Pi know we’re here.”

“Fine,” you grumble. You hitch your bag over your shoulder and head towards the stairs. The narrow stairs are as tiny as always. You take them two at a time, ducking down below the overhang, and wander down the hall towards your room. 

By the time Mayra comes up, you’re already laying in bed. The compress is cold against your skin. “How’s Pi?” you ask when the door squeaks.

“She’s good,” Mayra says. You hear the door click closed and then the heavy thunk of the lock. You hook a thumb under the compress and peer out from it. “What? She is.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Sometimes your face talks for you.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, dropping the compress back down and snuggling further into the bed.

You can hear Mayra moving about as you concentrate on your breathing, willing away the soft buzzing in your head. She curses quietly when she stubs her toe. A soft thump tells you that as always, she’s dumped her clothes on the floor to trip over in the morning.

“Is it okay if I read?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Can’t see anything under this anyway.”

“Want me to read out loud?”

“Absolutely not.”

She huffs a laugh.

Silence falls. You let yourself drift, the soft scrape of Mayra turning the pages soothing.

“You would tell me, right?” Mayra asks. It’s almost a whisper. 

You pull up the compress to peer at the other bed. Mayra’s got her book down in her lap, her fingers marking her page. Her amber eyes hold yours. She’s biting at her lower lip, her teeth scraping over the full flesh slowly.

“What?”

“You would tell me, right? If something was really wrong?”

“Oh, Mayra,” you breathe, your stomach twisting. 

“Because it feels like you know what’s happening. Like you just don’t want to tell us. And I can’t tell how bad it really is.”

“Mayra.”

“I just want to know,” she says, dropping her book to scrub her hands over her face, turning away just slightly. “If there was something really wrong, you would tell me, right?”

“Yes,” you say, forcing the word from your throat. It feels like you're going to choke on it. The compress drips water down your wrist as you twist it around your fingers until it hurts. “Of course, Mayra, I would tell you.”

She turns back to you, and you ache. With her hair spilling down around her and her nightshirt loose around her shoulders, she looks young again, reminds you of your greenhorn days together, when you’d both murmured deep into the night and regretted it in the morning, but only a little. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

You watch her for a moment. She clears her throat and picks up her book, settling low on her bed. “Goodnight,” she says, glancing over and giving you a small smile.

“Goodnight,” you reply, and lay the compress back down over your eyes.

It takes a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

Fuzzy-headed and led by the drifting scent of frying oil, you stumble down the narrow stairs of Pi’s - Mayra barely muffles a low laugh and you toss an amiable curse in her direction - and out into the common space. It’s already humming with noise, with ranch and farm hands alike sprawled across the plush cushions dotted throughout the room. Zhao Mi waves. She’s perched on a cushion near the bay windows, picking through a large steamer basket of mantou. Ryou is blearily sipping coffee next to her; he doesn’t even wince when she clips him with her flapping sleeve.

You wave back but keep heading towards Pi. She slides you a mug of coffee when you reach her, the mug rumbling along the pitted birchwood of the counter. She immediately returns to roughly chopping her bunch of huge swiss chard leaves - thick stemmed and wildly variegated, some stems the deep crimson of a ruby in the sun, others butter yellow, the color spreading from the stem in a map of thick veins laced through the deep green of the leaves - her small hands fast and steady. “Morning,” she says. “Y’all get up too early.”

“Sun’s essentially up,” Mayra points out, gesturing to the windows, where the soft dawn light is starting to filter in. “Means it’s already late.”

“Farmers,” Pi grumbles.

“I’m a ranch hand.”

“A ranch hand who’s about to lose her right to breakfast.”

“Ah, Pi,” Mayra practically wails. You sip at your coffee. “Pi, don’t deny me the real reason I come on the airship drop!”

“Flatterer,” Pi says, but her lips are curving up at the edges. “Go help, then.”

Mayra leans over the counter to press a kiss to Pi’s cheek. Pi swats at her but allows it, her cheeks darkening. Mayra trots off towards the gathering swell of people putting together breakfast - you can see Tamin carefully tilting the pan to make delicate crepes before handing them off to Shinji, who dollops large spoonfuls of blintz filling into them before rolling them with practiced movements - and immediately has a large chopping board shoved into her hands. There’s a sudden overflow of laughter as Mayra joins the group, delight shining among them all despite the shadow of the airship. The communal breakfast is a rare respite, one of the few times you’re not eating on the run, and even now, it’s hard to take the warmth away from it.

Pi flicks her hazel eyes to you. “Quail eggs over there,” she says, jerking her chin towards them, their speckled shells gleaming in the light. “Gold Tree brought them yesterday.” 

“Thanks,” you murmur. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You take another sip of your coffee. “Alright,” you say, knowing Pi is ignoring your less than subtle appraising look at the fresh ingredients spread across multiple counters and tables. It’s far more than she would have received, with as many goods as possible being rerouted to the airship. She’s likely dug into her reserves in the larder. Pi grabs heaping handfuls of the chard, transferring it into a large bowl that she thrusts in your direction. 

“Go sit,” she says. “Take this with you.” 

You salute her with your mug before hefting the bowl onto your hip. There’s a few empty cushions at one of the tables near the stairs to the lodging rooms; you deposit the chard at one of the impromptu workstations and settle there. The cotton in your head is receding, but there’s an ominous buzzing threatening to turn into something truly painful. 

“Morning,” Ryou grates as he swings himself onto the cushion across the table. The bags under his glazed over eyes are deep plum, and his hair is smashed down on one side where he clearly had laid down on the table. He’s procured a refill on his coffee, and you suspect he’ll need a few more. You wonder who carried him home last night.

“Morning,” you reply, taking the mantou he’s offering you and biting into it. “You gonna survive the ride today?”

“If I don’t think about it, it doesn’t exist.”

“Let me know how that works out for you.”

“Shut up. Where are the others?”

“Mayra’s helping with breakfast,” you say.

“You mean snacking and hoping no one notices.”

“Same difference.”

He barks out a laugh and immediately winces. “Shit.” You hide your smile behind the lip of your mug. “The rest?”

You’re about to shrug when your head pulses heavily. “Silas and Peking just came in,” you say, not bothering to look. Ryou glances towards the entryway; from his raised brow, you’re correct. Your head pulses again. 

“Good morning,” Silas says. His greeting trails off at the end. When you glance back at him, he can’t seem to find a place to focus on. There’s that same boyish smile lighting up his face as his eyes flick from person to person, something like wonder in his eyes.

“Morning,” Ryou grunts. 

You take another sip of your coffee as Silas leans forward on the tips of his toes to peer at the busy workstation nearby. Peking steadies him without looking, the motion easy and familiar. 

“Surprised you’re so into this, Silas,” you say. “Didn’t you say you spent a lot of time in the kitchen growing up?” From the quirk of Peking’s lips, he catches the snide edge of your tone. 

Silas blinks, refocusing on you. “Oh,” he says. “I love seeing communal cooking. I hadn’t realized it would be on this scale.” He gestures to the multiple workstations. More people are wandering downstairs now, all different types of workers. Some of them look worn - likely representatives of the more heavily fined farms and ranches - but even those shadows of exhaustion get washed away as they settle into spirited conversations. “It’s different than what I was expecting when Lu Ren said to come here for breakfast. But yes, I did spend a lot of time in the kitchen when I was young. And I do run a restaurant, remember?”

“Ah,” you say, heat rising in your cheeks. “I forgot, since it hasn’t opened yet.”

“It will soon!”

“Glad to hear it,” you murmur, taking a long pull of your coffee to avoid having to speak for a moment.

“Should I help with breakfast?”

“Best that you don’t,” Ryou says. “They’ve got it under control. There’s something of a rhythm to it.”

You snort. “Really?” 

“I didn’t say it was a graceful rhythm.”

“Are you sure I shouldn’t help?” Silas asks, shifting slightly. 

“Just sit,” Ryou says, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Please.”

“If you’re sure.” Silas slides onto the cushion next to Ryou, resting his chin on his hands. 

Naturally, Peking settles on the cushion beside you. The buzzing in your head ramps up a notch. 

Ryou offers the basket of mantou to Peking. Peking refuses with a soft gesture of one elegant hand, his head inclined in thanks. His long braid swings with the movement, the weight of it brushing past your shoulder. You struggle to not pull away. 

“I need more coffee,” Ryou mutters. He pushes to his feet with a groan and leans forward to snag another mantou. “Anyone else?”

You all decline. “Suit yourselves,” he says. “Morning, Lu Ren.”

“Good morning,” Lu Ren says. He slides onto the cushion on your other side. “Here,” he says. “I figured I’d grab this for you while I was up.” 

“You’re late,” you murmur, cupping your hand so that he can drop the tiny quail egg into your palm. The speckled shell gleams in the light. You roll it between your palms, feeling the shell give beneath the pressure, the shards starting to come loose and pricking against your skin.

“Thank you works too.”

“Thank you,” you say with a laugh, peeling the shell away from the egg. “I do appreciate it.” You bite into the egg and the still warm yolk breaks under your teeth to run out onto your tongue rich and thick. 

“You’re late, Lu Ren,” Mayra says, swinging herself onto the cushion next to Silas. She puts down the serving tray she’d been balancing. It’s overflowing with food - the deep golden hue of blintzes and youtiao piled high, bowls of congee dotted with thick slices of meaty mushrooms, handfuls of sticky dates clumped together, char-marked halloumi squares tucked against plump wedges of tomatoes, and many others - and she nudges it to the center of the table.

“Not all of us just walked downstairs to get to breakfast,” Lu Ren says with a sigh. You nudge him with your knee. He flashes a grin at you before turning his attention to the rest of the table. “Did you find the inn easily enough, Silas?”

“Oh, yes,” Silas says. “Your directions were right on the mark. An interesting place, too.”

“Where did you stay?” Mayra asks, sprinkling a few minced green onions onto her congee. Lu Ren nudges you and you snag him a few youtiao, scooping up a blintz for yourself.

“Ah-” Silas murmurs, a small flush rising to his cheeks.

Peking saves him, naming off one of the nicer inns on the edge of the wealthy section of Hilena. It’s a fair distance away from Pi’s. Lu Ren must have swung by and picked them up. 

Breakfast settles into quiet conversation. Silas keeps getting distracted by the nearby workstations, but his attention is soon caught when you, Mayra, and Lu Ren start to mull over the next airship manifest. You list off crops - some of them obvious, some of them only likely to appear if the airship authority has received specific requests - and muddle through how best to potentially increase the crop output. You all know you’ll need a higher yield than usual.

You’ve just bitten into a slice of halloumi, crisp and smoky with salt and char, when Pi appears. She tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and tightens the knot of her apron.

“I thought I’d let you get at least a little bit of coffee and some food in you before this,” she says, pulling an envelope out of her apron pocket. She presses it into your hand. Her smile has faded into a thin line, her eyes serious.

“Motherfuck,” you mutter, eyes immediately drawn to the gold embossed seal of the airship authority. The table goes quiet. “When did it come?”

“Early this morning.”

“Thanks, Pi.”

“Good luck,” she says crisply as someone shouts her name. 

“Well?” Mayra asks, leaning over the table to get a better look.

You slide a nail under the seal and break it. Lu Ren squeezes your knee. You scan the paper quickly, your grip tightening until the paper starts to crumple at the edges.

“Summons,” you mutter, tossing the paper onto the table. 

Mayra scoops it up before it even hits the surface, her amber eyes keen. She mumbles to herself as she reads the summons. “It’s for today,” she says, looking up sharply, her brow furrowed.

“I know.” You pull at a snagged cuticle. “Shit. I hate this part.”

“Is something wrong?” Peking asks, leaning over towards you.

You shy away from him. “Airship authority summons,” you say, nodding towards the letter, now in Lu Ren’s large hands. 

“Is that unusual?” Silas asks. He’s leaning forward to try and peer across the table.

“Yes.” You rub your temples, pressing hard against the throbbing that’s settled there. “Sort of. Though after this airship drop, maybe there isn’t a usual anymore.” You pick up your mug and take a sip of your lukewarm coffee. The letter crinkles as you nab it out of Lu Ren’s hands. He pinches your arm lightly, but when you glance at him, his dark eyes are serious.

“You’ll go?” he asks.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Do I really have a choice?” You could, you suppose. It’s not unheard of, skipping a summons, but you have a feeling this time the airship authority would actually levy the fine against you. It’s probably higher than you want to pay. You scan over the summons again. The indicated time is late morning, well past the time the caravan is supposed to leave to head back to town. Your head pulses.

“Pi,” you call. 

She glances up from the workstation she’s hovering over - the worker she’d been watching relaxes his grip on the spoon as soon as her eyes leave him - and raises a brow.

“Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.”

“Great, thanks.” You push yourself to your feet. “Give me a minute,” you tell the table. 

A few workers greet you as you cross the room, swerving around people carrying bowls of food and heaping piles of ingredients. You duck behind the counter and snag Pi’s phone, pulling it up onto the wooden surface so you don’t catch the cord on anything that could be knocked over. The number is familiar enough that you don’t need to look as you dial. You peer out over the countertop and see Lu Ren and Mayra hunched together, murmuring to each other as Peking and Silas watch. 

The line rings. You tap your fingers against the counter as you wait, nodding to Zhao Mi as she passes by. There’s a click as the line is picked up.

“Pi. I can’t say I was expecting to hear from you anytime soon. Especially not this early.”

“Ven.”

She pauses. “Well,” she murmurs. “I suppose it’s always good to get final confirmation that the new airship authority is an idiot. You were summoned?”

“I was,” you say, winding the coils of the phone cord around your pointer finger. “I wasn’t sure if anyone else was. Who else?”

“Several others. Liu Yang was. She’s not going, of course. A few small time farmers who produced exceptionally well this season.”

“Any idea why?”

“Nothing solid. Bits and pieces of politics. Hard to tell if it’s a power flex or just idiocy. My guess is a bit of both. Paloma must be furious.”

“Have you met him?”

“Not yet.”

“Want to?”

“I’ve been biding my time, but perhaps I should introduce myself,” Ven says, wicked delight warming her silken voice. “Should I bring Shu?”

“Probably not.”

“Ah, she’ll be disappointed. Still, you’re probably right. I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks, Ven,” you murmur.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “But of course. Always.”

She hangs up with a soft click. You tuck the phone away again before hooking your hands around the far edge of the counter and bending, trying to release the knotted tension in your shoulders.

It takes a moment, but eventually you can feel the soft burn of the stretch easing your muscles. You let go of the counter and straighten slightly, taking a moment to rest your cheek against the counter. It’s cool against your skin. 

“You’re lucky I wipe that down frequently.”

“I trust you to keep an impeccably clean countertop. That’s the only reason I’m lying on it, Pi.”

“Did you call Ven?” She’s wiping the counter down, slowly circling closer and closer to where you’re pressed against it.

“Yeah.”

“You’re going, then, I take it.” The edge of her cloth whispers against your nose.

You haul yourself up. “Pi, really?” You rub the tip of your damp nose. “And yes, I’m going.”

“Good luck,” she says, patting your arm as she brushes by you. “I have a feeling you may need it.” She tosses the rag into the sink and sweeps out from behind the counter. 

“I know, Pi,” you mutter, slipping out behind her to head back to the table, where Silas is staring wide-eyed as Mayra grits something at Lu Ren. You feel your head throb. “Believe me, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want y'all to know i almost named this chapter 'a summoning' but figured that would perhaps be a bit too mean.
> 
> i'm so glad it's july, june was a d o o z y of a month and this chapter gave me hell!
> 
> Also my dumb brain fleshes out interesting quirks or traits even of characters that are present for five seconds, which I'm sharing because I can. 
> 
> Zhao Mi? She runs a 30 acre orchard where the trees are set in diamond patterns expanding outwards because she can do what she wants! She’s allergic to 2/3rds of the fruit she grows! She always forgets to wear gloves when picking them and gets rashes on her hands! Her husband is Done! 
> 
> Tamin makes blintz because it’s the recipe she and her wife made at the communal breakfast they met at! Shinji is her equipment manager and thinks it’s the cheesiest thing in the world but he learned how to roll blintz bc it makes his boss happy! Plus Tamin makes HELLA good blintz and he wants that in his life! They’ve been working together for 15 years and neither of them wants to tell the other that they’ve straight up forgotten where the root cellar’s key is! (Luckily their greenhorn farm hand Yang Li knows!) 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed this and continue to do so.


	7. that hidden kindling

The caravan leaves in just under two hours and you are running out of options.

Lu Ren is still deep in conversation with Mayra, his sinewy frame practically draped across the table to better hear her. The common room is filled now, steady conversations a dull roar. A few people flick you a casual greeting, but most avoid your table and the intense energy radiating from your companions. You do not blame them.

Ryou mouths ‘godspeed’ to you from across the room, lifting his coffee mug in a salute.

“Stop,” you say as Mayra throws out another rancher’s name.

“It’s fine,” she says, flicking her hand in your direction. She hasn’t looked away from the list she and Lu Ren are hunched over. The sunlight pouring in from the large windows at the front of the inn catches on her high cheekbones, painting them with a soft golden tint. “He owes me a favor.”

You rub your thumbs against your temples in small circles, feeling the heated skin - it’s oddly warm in the common room, you think, but you suppose that’s what happens when large groups of people cook together - shifting over the bone as you apply pressure. “No one’s delaying because of me. The Seeding’s tomorrow.”

“Which is precisely why we’re waiting for you,” Mayra says. “Someone can cover our place in the caravan.”

“You are not waiting for me.”

“We are,” Lu Ren says mildly. He pulls back to his cushion with a ripple of sleek muscle, turning to you once he’s settled. “I don’t know why you would think otherwise.”

You scrub a hand over your face. There’s a soft buzzing in your head, like something is rattling around in your skull. “Because you have a place in the caravan and I can get a ride with someone else tomorrow morning.”

“You’re so dumb,” Mayra says, her lips tilting in a fond smile. “It’s weirdly endearing.”

“Fuck off, Mayra.”

“Let it go,” Lu Ren murmurs. He squeezes your knee gently, his olive skin bronze against the light material of your pants, rubbing at the tense muscles in your thigh with his thumb. “It’s hardly something to argue about. You should be more concerned about the summons.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” you snap, letting your head drop onto the table. 

Lu Ren laughs and runs a hand over your back. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you grouse, pushing yourself upright again. “Not like you’re wrong.”

“Got it,” Mayra crows. “Be right back.”

“Wait, Mayra-” you start, but she’s already on her feet, her thick braid whipping behind her. She strides off - she’s like an avalanche, sometimes, thundering through obstacles without a thought - towards one of the impromptu workstations. “Should we warn them?” you ask.

“Won’t do any good,” Lu Ren says, his smile just wide enough for his dimples to appear.

“I know. I still feel bad.”

You feel more than hear the chuckle that rumbles through Peking. He’s lounging on the cushion next to you, rolling his pipe between his elegant fingers. You can feel the heat radiating off of him. “She does seem to be a rather unstoppable force.”

“You’ve no idea,” you mumble, sipping at your lukewarm coffee. 

“I must admit to some curiosity about the caravan,” Peking says. His smile is soft, but there’s a sharpness to his golden eyes that unnerves you. “Is it truly an issue to not take part in it?” Across the table, Silas perks up, pulling his gaze from the closest workstation - where Zhao Mi is shucking oysters with quick twists of her small hands, the shell popping free once she smoothly rocks the oyster knife under the hinge of it - and turning to you.

“Ah,” you say, shredding a mantou bun into small bits. “It’s not really a problem, actually. Things are always changing last minute; people staying to negotiate with merchants, that type of thing.”

Peking lifts an elegant brow. “Yet you seem set against it.”

“I don’t see why the summons has to inconvenience all of us. Bad enough that one of us is delayed, especially with the summer harvest coming.” 

“I see.”

“Basically,” Lu Ren says, leaning around you to peer at Peking, his shaggy ebony hair brushing against your cheek, “it’s pure stubbornness.”

Peking chuckles. You elbow Lu Ren in the ribs. 

“Ow,” he mutters, pinching you lightly.

“You deserved it.”

“Not even you believe that,” he says. “If you did, you would have hit me harder.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Lu Ren pulls back with a laugh, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “I yield, I yield,” he says. “Do you want more coffee?”

“Please.”

He hums an acknowledgement before sweeping your mug up. He rises from the cushion with limber ease, his slim frame belying the brawn you’ve seen him display multiple times on the farm. You watch him trot off.

You pop a bit of the mantou you’ve shredded into your mouth. The buzzing in your head has grown stronger, but it’s still soft at the edges. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, rolling your neck to stretch it. The sun is warm against you, the soft rays playing over you in gentle fingers, and you want to stretch out in the bed of the truck to soak it up despite the sweat starting to gather at the nape of your neck. 

“What’s the Seeding?”

You crack an eye open to peer at Silas. From the teeth marks on his bottom lip, it’s taken him quite a bit of restraint to keep from blurting the question until now. His deep brown eyes are fixed on you.

With a sigh, you open your other eye and lean forward on your elbows. Silas mimics you, swaying closer, practically oozing excitement.

“It’s an old tradition,” Mayra says, plopping down on the cushion next to Silas with a grunt. “Not important right now.” 

“But-” Silas says, his voice bordering on petulant.

“Not important,” Mayra repeats. She glances at you with a wide grin. “Isaac says he’ll take our caravan spot.”

“Isaac?”

She waves a hand. “Ranch hand from the Edge. Owes me.”

“But Redwall-”

“He’ll do that too. Like I said: owes me.” Her grin widens until it’s just a dangerous flash of teeth. 

You decide you don't want to know. If he’s willing to do the unloading you usually assist with, Isaac must owe Mayra quite a bit.

“Fine,” you say, blowing out a breath. “I know when I’m beaten.”

“Excellent,” Mayra says. “I do love winning.”

“Shut it.”

Ryou wanders over with Lu Ren, the two men chatting quietly as they draw closer to the table. At some point, Lu Ren has put his shaggy black hair up into a small tufted ponytail, though you’re not sure why he bothered, since there are already tendrils of hair escaping to frame his face. He hands you a new mug of coffee. There’s still steam wisping up from it, barely visible in the ever-brightening sunlight. The porcelain is hot in your already warm hands, a fine layer of sweat on your palms. You murmur your thanks, reaching up to brushing Lu Ren’s bangs out of his eyes, and both of them seat themselves. 

For a bit, all of you settle into conversation, topics jumping from crop yield to cow feed to patching a few fences that border the ranches. You should be talking about the summons, you know, but you’re deeply aware of Silas’s curious gaze, his deep brown eyes shining in the sunlight, and the questions he’s peppering into the conversation. It’s harmless, you suppose, but you can’t say you appreciate a still unknown Master Attendant’s inquisitiveness after such a disaster of an airship drop. 

Even mostly skirting the sharp edges that line the topic of the airship drop, the implications of it are widespread throughout the conversation. The bitterness of it lingers on your tongue, always at the edge of your awareness. 

Ryou has just asked you about your summons, a scowl deepening the lines in his tanned face, when Javi calls out to you.

It takes you a second to find him in the crowded common room, but you finally spot him leaning against the door jamb of the pantry. He beckons to you, a soft smile spreading across his lips, his teeth white like snow against his dark skin. 

“I’ll be back,” you say. 

“Get some peppermint for Ari,” Mayra says absently. “Somehow Hess obliterated the ones she was growing in their bedroom window.”

You blink. “How?”

“Dunno. Just get her some.”

“Fine. Any other requests?”

Ryou grunts a no as Mayra hands him the summons letter, his eyes intently focused on the paper. You raise an eyebrow at Lu Ren. 

“Javi already knows what I need,” Lu Ren says, batting Mayra’s hand away as she tries to pull on his little ponytail. “Stop,” he tells her, but his lips are tilting up at the corner.

“No, lemme see, your hair is too short for this, you idiot. I can do it better.”

“You were wearing a cow tag in your hair last night. I’m not taking advice from you.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

You slink away before you can get pulled into the conversation, ignoring the plea in Silas’s eyes as he watches the two bicker.

Javi pushes himself off of the door jamb as you approaching, his lanky frame unfolding like a paper fan. “Morning,” he says. “Who’s the noble?”

“New Master Attendant.”

He whistles under his breath. “Yours or Lu Ren’s?”

“Ours.”

He claps a hand against your back. “At least he won’t last long. Nobles never do.”

You glance back at Silas. He’s speaking to Peking, his myriad of rings - the mass of them still stacked only on one finger of each hand, though they’re on his ring fingers now instead of his index fingers - glinting in the light. “I don’t know,” you murmur. “We’ll see.” 

You look away, returning your gaze to Javi as he finishes off of the mug of tea he’d been balancing in one hand. He drops it haphazardly onto a nearby table - two of the farmhands seated there scoff, but there’s a fond hint to the sound - and gives you another smile.

“Your usual order is in place and has been sent to the farm,” Javi says, tucking his delicate hands into the pockets of his jeans. “With what I’m hearing about airship, though…”

“I’ll need to double the midsummer seeds,” you say with a sigh. “It’s probably too late for the summer’s start airship, but I’d like to make sure I have the autumn airship in hand. I think another quarter order for the hothouse.”

Javi sucks his teeth, his forehead wrinkling. “I can’t promise you anything,” he says. “Lot of folks trying to hedge their bets, just like you. But I should be able to do at least the hothouse seeds and likely a good portion of the midsummer seeds.”

“Javi,” you plead.

“I know. But some of the big farms have tripled their orders already.”

“Shit,” you mutter, rubbing a hand over the nape of your neck.

“I’ll try,” he promises. “Anything else?”

“Ari needs some peppermint plants.”

“She bought some late last autumn, though. Not that I hate to have a repeat customer, but I do also take pride in my wares.”

“Apparently Hess caused a bit of a problem.”

He laughs, his dark eyes glinting. “I feel better, then. I’ll ship them, I suppose?”

“I think that’s for the best.” You pull your wallet out of your pocket, grimacing at the clamminess of your palm against the worn leather. It’s easy enough to sort out the gold you need for the upfront payment. You slip it to Javi and he tucks it away, not bothering to count. “Still okay to send you the rest once the full drop payment comes in?”

“Yup. I’ll let you know the final count of what I can provide a few days before. You’ll be high on my list.”

“Great,” you say. “I do appreciate it, Javi.”

He hums. “Travel safe.”

“You too,” you say with a smile. 

Javi catches your wrist as you start to turn away. You glance back over your shoulder, one eyebrow raised. He tilts his head towards one of the tables in the back; you follow his gaze and meet Asha’s hazel eyes.

“Ah,” you say. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Asha’s leaning against the table, her small form bathed in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. In the light, the crow’s feet that line her eyes seem almost papery. It’s strangely delicate against her taciturn features, just a touch of her age peering through her sturdiness. You meander towards her. A few people catch you for small greetings on the way, and while Asha’s lips thin into a tight line, she makes no move to hurry you along.

You perch next to her, the table cutting into you slightly as you lean against it. For a moment, the two of you are silent, surveying the bustling common room that you’re facing. 

“Good morning, Auntie.”

“Yes, yes, good morning. You were summoned.”

You take a sip of your coffee. “Is that a question?”

She scoffs. “Did it sound like one?”

“I suppose not.” 

“Anything specific?”

“Just a generic summons,” you say. “The usual - an order disguised as a request.” You peer at her out of the corner of your eye. Her stern features are difficult to read, but her hazel eyes are flickering over the room, her keen gaze missing nothing. 

“Ven will meet us upstairs,” she mutters. “I’m sure Pi doesn’t mind.”

“Probably not. What about Silas?”

She waves a gnarled hand. “He’s taken care of.” 

“Ominous,” you say. 

Asha doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response. You glance towards the table you’d abandoned, just in time to see Alyona - looking particularly disarming with her flaxen braids pinned around her head like a crown and a few of the sky blue wildflowers that run rampant on the shores of Hilena woven in - lean over to ask Silas something.

His face lights up. Mayra buries her face in Lu Ren’s shoulder, but it does little to hide the fact that she’s laughing. 

“He’s easy to distract,” Asha says, smiling grimly. You return your attention to her, knowing your attention to the table had perhaps been slightly too obvious. “Luckily.”

You hum, peering at Silas from your peripherals as he gets to his feet. Alyona’s waiting patiently at the end of the table, her wiry arms crossed over her chest. 

Peking, though, seems perfectly content on his cushion. There’s smoke rolling from his lips. It reminds you of the marine layer sitting heavy in the city as the sun sets, the wisps of fog undulating through the streets. You peer at him from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up, meeting your gaze as if he was waiting for it, and a prick of pain jolts through you. He exhales the rest of the smoke in a long stream, and the smile that settles on his lips feels like it’s holding a secret. 

Peking rolls to his feet with easy grace, tucking his long pipe away. Even as Silas chatters at him, his keen eyes remain on you, his head tilting slightly.

Asha’s hand on your forearm pulls you free from Peking’s golden gaze. “Go,” she says. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

You down your mug of coffee and push off the table. 

Silas is already halfway out the front door by the time you make it back to Mayra and Lu Ren. Peking is not far behind him, though he is moving at a far more sedate pace. Alyona is still smiling, but it’s strained. You remind yourself to buy her something nice the next time you’re in Parisel.

“Dare I ask?” you say, sliding into the seat across from Mayra. You also snag her water glass, assuming she won’t notice.

“Are they gone?” she asks, peeking out from Lu Ren’s shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“She’s taking him to Manon’s.”

“That’s borderline cruel,” you murmur, biting down on your laugh. 

“I know,” Mayra cackles. “Manon is going to lose her damn mind.”

Lu Ren sighs, rolling his sleeves up on his lean forearms. “He’s just eager to learn,” he says. “Manon will adjust. Where’s Asha?”

“Upstairs,” you say.

Mayra raises a brow, pinning you in place with her sharp eyes. “You called Ven, didn’t you?”

“Ah,” you say. “I did.”

“Leave it to you to bring a gun to a knife fight,” Mayra says with a snort, resting her chin on her free hand, her amber eyes shining. 

You take a sip of your water.

Lu Ren pushes himself to his feet with a groan. Mayra shoves a chunk of mango into her mouth before following suit. You duck to the side with a squeal as she tries to wipe her fingers on you, still shining with sticky juice.

The narrow stairs groan under your weight as you climb them, occasionally pressing against the wall when someone is coming down, water sloshing over the rim of your glass in the more precarious moments. Mayra steadies you with a firm hand when you tilt backwards to let Henrich by, his bulky saddlebags held as high as he can manage underneath the sharply sloped ceiling.

Asha is waiting for you in one of the smaller common rooms. She’s ensconced in one of the plush armchairs, a throne of a chair that practically engulfs her. It does not diminish her presence in the slightest.

“Alyona’s hair was a nice touch,” Mayra says with a toothy grin, sliding into one of the other armchairs. She leans forward on her elbows, lacing her hands together. “Very milkmaid.”

Lu Ren brushes by you with a soft touch at the small of your back. He settles into his seat. Mayra pats the arm of her chair. You stay leaning against the doorframe, ignoring her as she pushes her lips into a deeply dramatic pout.

“I’ll be sure to pass on your compliments. She worked hard on those braids,” Asha says wryly.

“Ven always has such a delicate manipulative touch,” Mayra says.

An arm slides around your waist, startling a harsh breath out of you. Ven laughs low in your ear, a creamy, silken sound, and pats your hip. “Your compliments are always stellar, Mayra.” Ven rubs a thumb over your hip as you lean into the plush curve of her.

Mayra grins. “Only the best for you.”

“Some nobles are easy,” Ven says. “I’d hardly have called that a delicate touch.”

“It was a little on the nose,” Lu Ren says, his cheeks dimpling as he smiles.

Ven shrugs, a smirk playing at the edge of her full lips. 

“So,” Mayra says, clapping her hands and leaning back in her chair. “Who else was summoned? This has Paloma’s sticky fingerprints all over it.”

You bite your lip. “Clumsy for her,” you murmur. The soft hum of your headache gets a little louder. “Timing’s wrong.”

“She miscalculated,” Ven says. “She’s too used to Jumana’s innate understanding of the politics of the airship. My guess is she nudged the new authority as if he were Jumana, and now she’s paying the price as he flexes his power.”

“No experience on a farm or a ranch, and not even the barest grasp of strategy,” Asha grumbles. “I’d be delighted to watch him suffer the consequences, but I doubt the Guild will move to reprimand him this early into his takeover.”

“They won’t,” Ven says.

Lu Ren taps his fingers against his thigh. “Who else was summoned, again?”

“A few small farms. Liu Yang. But that’s just what’s trickled in to me.”

“There’s more,” Asha says. She reaches down to the bag tucked away at her feet, her long braid - deeply streaked with silver, like a black riverbank stone with veins of quartz running through it - thumping against her chest. “Ekatrina grabbed what she could.”

Mayra frowns. “Not you?”

Asha’s laugh creaks out of her. “I’m not particularly popular with the airship authority at the moment. They’re trying to be subtle about it. I, on the other hand, am not being subtle about my thoughts on the drop.”

“Shocking,” Lu Ren murmurs.

“I heard that, Lu Ren.”

“Sorry Auntie.”

“Alyona’s too connected to me to pass under the radar, so Ekatrina’s been slipping me bits and pieces when she can. Says they’re paying a lot of attention to what I’m doing.”

“Not like they can get rid of you, though,” Mayra says.

Asha bares her teeth in a vicious mimicry of a smile. “I hope they try.”

“I’m almost disappointed that even this airship authority isn’t that much of an idiot,” Ven says, her silken voice lilting with amusement. She squeezes your hip before nudging you off of her as Asha fishes out a handful of papers - mostly scraps, roughly torn at the edges - and starts to spread them over a nearby table. 

Ven strides over to the table, peering down at the scraps as Asha sorts them with blunt, methodical fingers. She’s striking in the soft glow of the sun, her bronze skin deepened by the pure white of her suit, the sharp clean lines of the garment softened by the delicate lace curling out from the vee that dips low on her breastbone. 

With a sigh, you push off of the door frame and make your way over. Mayra springs up and darts over to the table, pushing between Asha and Ven, ignoring the swat Asha lands on her bicep. Lu Ren chuckles but rises as well.

You scan over the scraps, trying to decipher the hurried scrawl. “Is this the list of summons?” you ask.

“Partially,” Asha mumbles. She’s still sorting through the scraps. “There’s also some potential numbers for the summer’s start drop - similar to the ones you gave to Anjali - but it’s hard to tell how realistic they are, since they’re all idiotic numbers.”

You hum, pulling a scrap towards you and tilting it towards Lu Ren. He reads it silently to himself with a frown, his mouth moving along with the words.

“Here,” Ven says, passing you a small stack, almost missing your hand, her green eyes already flitting to the scrap that Asha’s holding out for her. “See if you two know any of these names. Some of the newer small farms and ranches escape me.”

“Shit, I didn’t think there was anything you weren’t aware of,” Mayra says, but it’s half-hearted, her focus on the scraps she’s flicking through. She’s biting her lip, her brow furrowed, and you know she’s looking at the airship numbers.

Ven ignores her.

You find a steady pattern with Lu Ren, the two of you swapping scraps of paper before shuffling them into piles. You’ve long since committed the unofficial regions of Gloriville - those porous borders that only the farming community seems to have a grasp on - to memory. Each place you know gets slotted into your mental map. Your fingers tighten on one of the scraps, the paper crinkling beneath your grip. _The Edge_ , you think, dropping the scrap and picking up the next. _The Space Between the Mountains. Spire Forest._

Your fingers move a little faster. _Ruin’s Doorstep_. Across the table, Mayra has picked up her pace as well. _Meadowsong. Lakeshore._ Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that Asha and Ven are simply watching the three of you. _River’s Mouth_. 

Liu Yang’s name comes up on the next piece of paper. Yours is right next to hers. As you grasp it, you realize that your hands are trembling. _The Fertile Cradle_.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose, trying to loosen the tight vice on your chest. There’s a sharp punch of pain behind your left eye.

“It’s a Narrowing,” Lu Ren breathes. It almost sounds like a question.

He looks towards Ven and Asha, his angular jawline sharpened with fury. “It’s a Narrowing.”

Asha’s expression could be carved from stone. Ven sighs, but her eyes - the murky green of sea glass, the color washed out just slightly - meet Lu Ren’s steadily. “We don’t know yet,” she says. “But yes, it looks like it could be a prelude to a Narrowing.”

You fold forward to press your face into your hands. Ven runs a gentle hand over the knobs of your spine. Her touch is a bitter comfort.

“Fuck,” Mayra whispers. You can hear paper crinkling.

“We don’t know yet.” Asha’s voice cracks like a whip through room. “There hasn’t been a Narrowing for years. Just prepare yourselves as best you can.”

“Do not spread this,” Ven warns. “Panic helps no one and it will weaken my position for negotiating. Coax people to prepare by using the increased airship numbers as a reason to build stock. There’ll be a push to expand farms beyond their means and capabilities to try and reach the numbers. Asha and I will do our best to curb it.”

“Who else knows?” you ask. It comes out muffled, since your face is still buried in your hands.

“Anjali and Peri,” Ven says. “There are likely others who put it together using their own sources, particularly the larger farms and ranches. We can assume anyone with heavier Guild involvement knows.”

“Okay,” you say, swaying back upright. “Okay.” Your nails cut into your palms.

There’s something soft in Ven’s face as she watches you. “Many will route through me,” she murmurs. “It will give us a slight advantage and help me time things more beneficially.”

“They’re gonna try and undercut you,” Mayra points out.

Ven shrugs, a careless ripple of motion. “They always try.”

“The Guild isn’t the Guild if they don’t try and pin us down when we’re making noise,” Asha says crisply, plucking the crinkled scraps of paper out of Mayra’s hands.

“True,” Lu Ren says. His jaw is still tight. You reach out and trace your fingers across the back of his hand. The slightest bit of tension eases from him. 

“We need to go,” Ven says to you. “Let’s not give them a reason for anything with this summons.”

“Fine,” you murmur. You start to gather the scraps of paper into some semblance of order. Asha scoffs and smacks at your hand. “Ow.”

“Go,” she says, gesturing to the door. 

Lu Ren squeezes your shoulder, sending you a soft smile before leaning down to help Asha. You head for the door, trying to ignore the pain now rolling in waves through your head, knowing Ven will follow.

The stairs creak under you. There’s another louder chorus that trails you; as soon as you’re in the common room, Mayra swings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into her whipcord body. She presses her cheek against your shoulder. She’s fizzing with energy, her lean muscles flexing against you. “Let’s give ‘em hell.”

“You’re not coming,” Ven says from behind the two of you. Mayra snorts. “Don’t cross me on this, Mayra. I’m nowhere near stupid enough to let you within spitting distance of the airship Authority right now.”

“Not looking for hi-”

“Nor do I want you anywhere near Paloma,” Ven interrupts, her voice a blade wrapped in silk. “That’s the last thing any of us needs.”

Mayra scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“She’s not wrong,” you offer.

“Wow, really?”

“Don’t even act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Mayra.”

“Ugh, fine.” She lets her arm drop away from your shoulders, but she reaches for your hand instead. Her hands are leathery, heavily calloused and chapped, but the touch is tender. She laces her fingers with yours. 

You clasp her hand tightly.

Ven chivvies you forward. You sigh, but head for the front door, Mayra easily keeping pace with you.

She squeezes your hand once more as the two of you step out into the morning sun - it’s still cool out, remnants of the marine layer’s ghostly touch - before letting go.

“Give ‘em hell,” she says.

“Not what we’re trying to do right now, Mayra.”

“I know,” she says. “But give ‘em hell anyway.”

“Alright,” you say.

She gives you a small, crisp salute as you climb into Ven’s car.

Ven lets you take a moment to settle in. She pulls out onto the street in one smooth glide. You press your forehead against the window, watching Hilena roll by. Slowly, the dingy houses fade into pristine, gleaming white ones, an occasional brightly colored shutter bouncing past. It’s smoother here, too, the cobblestones worn down but well maintained. You watch a small bumblebee dither over a window box brimming with rare flowers, each small bloom delicately shaped, the paper thin petals folding out around a golden stamen.

“If there is a Narrowing,” you say quietly, “should I be worried about having been summoned?”

Ven looks at you from the corner of her eye. She has a strong profile, her nose slightly off kilter from being broken - “an essential part of growing up, I think” - and strong-jawed. She looks like she has been carved from a cliff face, like she was made to weather any type of storm. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “But if they’re aiming for you, they have to go through me first.”

The pang of affection rattles through you.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“You should.”

It’s easier, after that. Ven outlines the beginning of a plan. She touches on some potential things that will come up in your summons, ranging from the actual drop to your pledged percent of your fields. None of it is new information, and you have kept a close eye on your farm through the years, but Ven has always been a whetstone for you, something to sharpen your edge against for a cleaner cut. The hardest part is setting aside what you know about the potential lurking in the future. 

“Go ahead,” Ven says, motioning you out of the car as she pulls up in front of the Guild. Someone comes to wave her along; she rolls down her window with a raised brow and they hurriedly back off.

“Why is the summons at the Guild?”

“You should actually read your summons, you know. Apparently there are renovations being done at the airship authority offices,” Ven drawls.

“They aren’t even trying to hide it anymore, are they?”

She shrugs, her necklace clinking with the movement. “Why hide an open secret?”

You groan, but heft yourself out of the car. Ven drives off to park.

The Guild’s headquarters is as incredible as you remember it. The building is lofty, with banks of gleaming floor-to-ceiling windows lining the entrance. You start up the steps. They’re polished marble, porcelain white shot through with streaks of cloudy grey, glistening brightly in the sunlight.

Your headache spreads like wildfire, fed by the Food Souls bustling to and fro with their Master Attendants. You avoid them the best you can. A few of them pause as you pass by, so slight that you barely even notice. 

The cavernous doors open into a lobby with a soaring ceiling. There are birds flitting through the massive accent windows facing the sea, the salt air rolling in the open panels. The Guild’s insignia is bright against the white walls.

You grit your teeth. 

Even in a sea of white, Paloma manages to stand out. You catch sight of her tucked away near the back windows, where the waves are pounding against the reinforced glass, cerulean water rushing up the windows, glittering under the sun. The blue of it outlines Paloma perfectly, stark against the flowing lines of her cream jumpsuit. 

She leans closer to the man she’s speaking with, her dark hair brightening his red, red hair even more. Her hands flutter, her bell sleeves trembling, the uneasy movement at odds with the confidence permeating her delicate features. 

The man, you realize with a wrinkle of your nose, is wearing a cape. It’s exquisite, really, the fine gold chains draped over his biceps made more delicate by the deep burgundy of the fabric. But it's still a cape.

He says something to Paloma - you’re too far to hear the words, but the rich timbre of his voice carries - and you wince as a shiver of pain runs down your spine. 

They keep murmuring to each other, both of them absolutely dripping with pride, and you cannot quite manage to turn away. The chains in Paloma’s hair chime. You look away from the man and directly into her stormcloud eyes.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Paloma purrs something to the man - the Food Soul, you realize, pain pulsing through you as he turns his gaze to you, a haughty smirk unfurling on his lips - and laughs low in her throat. She touches him gently on the forearm, ignoring the miffed expression that darts across his visage, and starts towards you. 

You consider running, but there’s nowhere to go. When the Food Soul follows her, though, you take a step backwards without even thinking about it. From the raise of his elegant brow, he notices.

An arm wraps around your waist. You relax into Ven’s familiar embrace, melting into the softness of her. Paloma stops. The smile on her face goes tight.

“Your timing is impeccable,” you murmur.

“So it seems.”

The two of you watch as Paloma says something to the Food Soul, her tone lowered so you cannot hear. He clicks his tongue but nods to her. His eyes slide to you once more before he scoffs, striding away with a whirl of his cape.

“You can never call me dramatic again,” Ven whispers to you. “Not after seeing that.”

“I can and I will.”

She laughs, hooking a finger into one of the belt loops of your pants. 

Paloma glances at the two of you, considering. She starts towards you again. “Lavender,” she says. She tips her head to you in passing greeting.

“Pal,” Ven drawls. “Always a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Paloma says, her soft smile hard at the edges. “You so rarely grace us with your presence here! It makes it all the more impressive that you’re able to maintain that majority for the aid grant for the Banks.”

Ven’s finger pulls your belt loop taut. You slide your hand under her suit jacket to rest at the small of her back, pressing gently against the soft lace of her bodysuit. “I do like a challenge,” Ven says amiably. You can feel her twisting your belt loop tighter and tighter.

“You always have.”

“That I have," Ven says. She tilts her wrist to glance at her watch, not even trying to be subtle. "I’m afraid we’ve got to go. I’d hate to be late.”

“Oh, of course, don’t let me keep you.”

Ven snaps out a crisp farewell that you try to cushion with a softer one. Ven uncurls her arm from around you and turns towards your destination. Paloma’s stormcloud eyes flash over to you, her lips drawing into a smile that makes your stomach churn. 

She snags your wrist the second you turn to leave. “Ah,” she says, her eyes glittering. “I almost forgot. That Nevras noble - a shame he had to leave just now - he’s made a very generous business proposal. And beyond that, it’s been years since you’ve been to Nevras. Even your most faithful buyers have perhaps grown antsy.”

“It’s harvest season, Paloma.”

She laughs quietly, the sound chiming. “Of course, of course, I know how consuming the harvest season is. It wouldn’t have to be a long trip.” She peers at you from underneath her dark lashes. There’s something cruel about her smile. “Just something to consider.”

“I’ll consider it,” you murmur, trying to twist out of her grasp.

“Excellent,” she says. “I’ll be in touch.”

She’s gone before you can even process it, her boots clicking across the pristine lobby floor.

“Bitch,” Ven breathes. She runs a hand over her cropped hair, the strands feathering out around her fingers.

You stare after Paloma, rubbing at your pulsing temples as inconspicuously as you can. “Has she ever been that overt with you before?”

“No. We’ll have to worry about that later, though. C’mon,” Ven says, tugging you down one of the side halls.

You hurry after her. It takes almost no time to reach a long reception desk, a fine antique of heavy mahogany. Someone peers over it and you sigh with relief.

“Nova,” you breathe. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you. I didn’t think they’d kept anyone aside from Asha’s crew.”

She laughs. “I’m hard to get rid of too,” she says. “Maybe not as hard as Asha, though.”

You bite down on the questions rising in you, knowing that Nova has very different access to information than Asha as an airship authority administrator. There’s no point in asking here. You’re just pleased to see a friendly face.

“Well?” Ven asks. You step on her foot as unobtrusively as you can. She doesn’t even wince.

“Good to see you too, Ven,” Nova says, settling back into her desk chair. “He’s already heard that you’re here.”

“Word does travel fast. Will he see me?”

“Ah,” Nova says. “He’s not free until late afternoon.”

Ven arches a brow. “I had intended on seeing him directly after this meeting.”

“I-”

“You two can deal with this once I’m set up,” you grouse. “Who am I meeting with?”

Nova winces. She clears her throat, her round cheeks darkening. “You’re meeting with the airship authority.”

“Nova. I know that.”

“No,” she says with a grimace. “You’re meeting with the actual Authority.”

You stare. She fidgets.

“What.”

“He’s meeting with everyone who was summoned,” she offers.

“Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath. The fine layer of sweat at the small of your back has suddenly chilled. “That’s...unusual.”

“Well,” Ven purrs. She shifts next to you, a fluid, predatory movement. “Two birds, one stone, I suppose.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased.”

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, drawing closer to you. “I’ll be there.” She glances at Nova. “Can you tell him we’re here, please?”

She nods and gestures the two of you to a nearby bank of chairs. Nova sends you a small smile before she disappears around the corner. With only the warbling hum of the radio tucked behind Nova’s desk, you can hear her knocking and the door clicking open and closed again. There’s a quiet rumble of muffled voices.

He makes you wait. 

Not long, realistically, but you can see the timer in Ven’s head ticking away the seconds. With each tick, her smile sharpens. Your head pulses.

“He’ll see you now,” Nova says softly as she comes around the corner. 

You push to your feet and head down the hallway. Ven is a comforting presence at your back.

It’s been a long time, you realize, since you’ve tangled with the Guild.

As you knock, your knuckles rapping heavily against the closed office door, it occurs to you that some gnashing, wild part of you is hungry for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lads i really set myself up by thinking i should name chapters.
> 
> please note that i did not make the saying two garuda, one stone, even though i was tempted.
> 
> anyway leave it to me to set up something like a forced meeting with An Authority and not even get to it in the next chapter!
> 
> catch me thinkin' about the potential politics and economies of tierra, it happens a lot.
> 
> my comma situation is almost dickensian, it's like i get paid per comma aka please sir, that's my emotional support comma.


	8. lines in the sand

The Authority dismisses you from the start.

You step into the office - a cavernous room gently lit by the sun reflecting off the undulating waves of the ocean, gauzy white curtains swaying in the soft breeze, a room both inviting and intimidating in the same breath - and sense it. He’s sprawled in his chair, idly spinning a pen between his slim fingers, and he does not straighten when you enter. He only flicks his cerulean gaze across your form. His mouth tilts into something on the edge of smug, and your jaw tightens, your teeth scraping against each other. 

Ven strides into the room behind you. His appraisal of her is similarly lazy, that twist of his lips tipping even more. 

She heads to one of the chairs in front of the desk. You follow her more sedately as she settles into her seat, her prim smile serrated at the edges. There’s a fine layer of frost creeping over her, the ice of her polite disdain coalescing into armor. She’s always been able to flicker through facets of herself, like a prism in the light, refracting the part of her that best fits the situation at hand. 

The Authority - a lanky beanstalk of a man, his fine clothes perfectly tailored to him - shifts slightly more upright. His earrings catch the light, the stacks of thin gold cuffs snaking up his ears in perfect little rows. “And you are?”

You start to introduce yourself, trying to keep your tone even. He flicks a hand in your direction to cut you off without looking at you. “I know who you are,” he says. “I’m asking about her.”

Ven sighs, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. She drapes an arm over her knee, her movement rippling with casual power. “Honestly, Rickon,” she says. “Pretending you don’t know who I am doesn’t make you seem important. It just comes across as incompetent.”

It takes effort to keep the smile from uncurling across your lips. 

A ruddy glow spreads across Rickon like spilled wine, the pink flush climbing high on his pale chest, just visible through the open collar of his shirt. He straightens out of his sprawl, his lips pursed. There’s a petulant slant to it, and it strips years away from his already boyish face, takes him from a man to a sulky youth. The corner of Ven’s lips tilts up mockingly and the atmosphere shifts. Something in Ven loosens, that predatory coil of her muscles easing just slightly.

“You should speak more respectfully, Ven,” Rickon grumbles. His flush is starting to fade away, but the tips of his ears still burn cherry red, just visible under the mass of platinum curls he’s wound into a loose bun. “I’m the airship Authority now.”

“That you are,” Ven says. Her voice has thawed, just slightly, enough to tempt. It works. Rickon relaxes into the silken sound almost eagerly. You wonder if he even realizes it. “Quite a step up for you.”

“It’s been a long time coming.”

“Has it?” Ven asks, raising a manicured brow. “Funny, I thought Jumana had things well handled.”

Rickon raises a slim shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. He leans forward, pulled into Ven’s orbit like a satellite, and her quiet, unimpressed little hum only tugs him closer. 

“She wasn’t bringing the exports to their full potential,” he says loftily. “The numbers were too low, anyone could see that. The Gui-the airship panel felt that I could bring production rates up to par. And from this drop, it’s clear that the agrarian community has had too much leeway.”

You tighten your grip on the arm of the chair, your clammy palm slipping against the polished wood. There’s a flicker of movement in Ven’s jawline, a quick flex of muscle before her distant smile settles back into place. To give yourself a moment, you let your gaze drift past the Authority to the light glinting on the ocean swells, the shimmer of it darkening the water to an even deeper blue. It’s a beautiful view, as if the whole world is laid out before the balcony, and you think of the dim lighting of Jumana’s office, tucked away in a hallway at the airship port. 

Jumana had been perhaps the most reasonable Authority you’d seen - she learned to sow corn in Oscar’s fields three weeks after being named to the position, asking questions the whole time, her honey eyes warmed to the color of sunlit whiskey as she scanned the fields, the knees of her borrowed coveralls stained with damp, warm dirt - and maybe you should have seen this coming sooner.

Ven says something that doesn’t quite make it past the cotton in your ears. There’s a drop of sweat sliding down your spine. Your headache flares, little shivers of pain darting down your nerves. You let your gaze fall from the ocean to the papers strewn about the Authority’s desk, blinking away the small black dots the sun’s reflection of the swells has left you with. 

Most of it is meaningless. There’s a few tallies for the airship drop - unmarked, with no scrawled notes against crop counts and the yield variance from last year - but the numbers are the same ones you’ve already seen. There’s letters, too, formal stilted language flowing across the page. A word catches your eye and you stiffen. The letter is half-obscured by odds and ends, but you scan what you can. Your head pulses. Rickon’s chattering - he’s brimming with that curious energy that Ven seems to bring out in so many nobles, a contradicting potion of arrogance and eagerness - isn’t helping.

“Why was I summoned?”

Rickon’s eyes flick to you as you cut him off mid-sentence. There’s an ugly little curl to his lip as he looks you over again.

“You speak,” he says, slouching back in his chair. “I was starting to think you didn’t know how.”

Ven digs her blunt fingernails into the meat of your thigh without looking, indenting your skin even through your pants. You suck in a quick breath through your nose at the pain. It cuts off your retort before it can even truly begin. Ven runs her palm over the stinging flesh, squeezing softly before withdrawing again. 

“I’m starting to think you don’t know why the summons was issued,” she says, idly examining her fingernails. 

Twin spots of color start to burn high on Rickon’s cheekbones. “Of course I know!”

“Good,” Ven says. “We can finally get to business, then.”

Rickon’s eyes - the sunlight has turned his azure gaze into seaglass, the edges of the color worn away by salt and sand - flicker to you again. He glances back to Ven, sees the dare in her eyes, and swallows. His jaw works for a moment before he leans forward and grabs a handful of papers. He shuffles them into some semblance of order.

“Your airship numbers were quite good,” Rickon says, those spots of color still blazing high on his cheeks.

“I met the quota.”

“You did,” he says, pulling up the top piece of paper of the pile in his hands and peering at the one underneath. “One of the few farms to do so, actually, even within the Fertile Cradle. And you even managed to have some produce left over from the drop for market.”

You peer at Ven out of the corner of your eye; she gives you a subtle shake of her head, her wintery green eyes honed in on the Authority. “I didn’t realize the airship authority paid attention to that,” you say.

“We do.” He flips another page over. “Especially when the produce comes from our compost piles.”

Ven goes very, very still. 

Your stomach twists. “I’m sorry?”

He glances up. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and it’s edged with something cruel. “The produce you sold at market yesterday afternoon came from the airship port compost piles.” He tosses the papers down on the desk. He leans back in his chair and crosses his lanky legs. 

“We’re only paid for what’s weighed and logged for the actual airship,” you say, shifting in your seat. “Which means that the airship authority only owns that produce.”

“The compost pile is still airship property,” Rickon says. “Isn’t that outlined in your contract?”

“I’m not sure,” you murmur carefully. “I would have to look.”

“It is. The fine will be taken from your remaining drop payment,” Rickon says. He’s spinning a pen idly in his long fingers, his azure eyes focused on you. “7% off of the full drop payment.”

You sink your teeth into your lip. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“How difficult was it when all of the port workers started to quit at the same time?” Ven asks.

Both of you glance towards her. She’s lounging in her chair, all loose-limbed danger, and her smile has a secret tucked away in the corner. Just the sight of that particular smile makes you fidget, the edges of your lips tugging up into a small smile.

“What?” Rickon asks. He examines Ven from under furrowed brows.

“You heard me.”

“I fail to see how that relates to this-”

“That,” Ven says, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to prop her elbows on her knees, “is because you aren’t quite paying attention.” Her smile has more than a hint of teeth to it.

Rickon scoffs. “Enlighten me, then,” he says, but there’s the softest quaver in his voice. 

“It was difficult enough when it was port workers, wasn’t it?” she asks. “How much more difficult do you think it will be when it’s the citizens of Hilena?”

“What are you talking about, Ven?”

“The thing about the compost piles,” she says, “is that the airship authority can’t sell them at market, since it’s produce they’ve rejected. You could sell it back to the farmers, but who would buy their own product that they haven’t even been paid for? No one wants to lose double their money. You could give it back to the farmers, I suppose, but you never do.”

“Get to the point, Ven,” Rickon grits. He’s stopped flicking his pen around. It’s clenched tightly in one fist. 

Ven tilts her head. “The point, Rickon,” she says softly, “is really a question. How do you think that the citizens of Hilena would react to the fact that the airship authority throws away baskets upon baskets of food every single time there’s an airship drop?”

He blanches. “No one would believe-”

“Of course they would,” you drawl. “It’s not as if the agricultural community has never spoken about the compost piles.”

His eyes dart to you. You watch as he pulls the cloak of his superiority tight around himself again, that same little sneer curling about his lips. “What do you think the citizens of Hilena would think about being sold rejected produce?”

You sigh. “The compost pile is produce that doesn’t rate for transport,” you tell him. “It’s still perfectly good, it just won’t hold up under the transportation conditions.” 

“And if someone was to sell the produce at market,” Ven says, careful even now to avoid actual confirmation, “it would likely be at cost instead of the usual market rates.”

Rickon grits his teeth. “The Guild-”

“A separate entity from the airship authority, isn’t it?” Ven asks. Her smile is all teeth.

Rickon slumps back in his chair, his wide eyes fixed on Ven. The curtains flutter in the sea breeze. A gull calls from somewhere high above. The sound echoes through the cavernous office. 

Ven straightens out her blazer, tugging the white fabric down slightly, the plunging neckline catching on the lace of her bodysuit. She leans back her chair. The sun’s rays illuminate the constellations of freckles scattered across her face and her broad smile.

You shift in your seat and prop your chin in your hand. “So,” you say, unable to keep the smug lilt from your voice. “About that fine.”

A muscle in Rickon’s cheek twitches. He does not look at you. “There will be no fine,” he grits. 

Your lips part as you sigh out a breath, feeling the corded muscles of your shoulders loosen.

“Is there anything else, then?” Ven asks. Her tone leaves no room for any answer aside from the one she desires.

“That’ll be all.”

She rolls to her feet in an easy, elegant movement, her smile still glittering with that polite disdain. You take her hand when she offers it; she pulls you to your feet in one motion. Rickon stays seated. 

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Rickon,” Ven says as she ushers you out of the office. He makes a noise you can’t quite decipher.

The door of his office clicks shut behind Ven. 

The two of you make it back to the edge of the Guild’s entrance lobby - you throw Nova a wave as Ven chivvies you past her desk - before you can’t contain the laughter anymore. It’s quiet, and a little bit shaky, and you close your eyes as Ven slings an arm low on your waist. Her touch presses the fabric of your shirt against the damp patch of sweat that’s been gathering at the small of your back.

“Fuck,” you mutter, tilting your head towards the vast expanse of the lobby ceiling. The soft, pulsing ripples of pain that have been radiating through your head are throbbing now. There’s a tern wheeling overhead, wings spread wide to catch the constant sea wind. You watch it for a moment as it darts out one of the open accent windows. “They’re looking for anything.”

“They are,” Ven says grimly. “The compost pile - that name really is a clever misdirect, you’d never know it’s just produce in baskets - the compost pile reclaim is practically an institution. It was a good test for them, too.”

“No wonder they chose him,” you say. “He’ll do anything they say, won’t he?”

“He will.”

“Do you think that was the only reason for the summons?”

“No.”

“Any ideas?” 

“A few,” she says. Her arm clamps tight around your waist abruptly. It startles a breath out of you, and her grip relents immediately. When you glance to her, her eyes are across the room. You follow her intense focus and find Paloma. 

The White Merchant is deep in conversation with a plainly dressed young woman. Next to Paloma’s intense arctic palette, the woman is oddly nondescript, with features that you probably couldn’t remember even if you tried. “Ven?”

“Go outside,” she says. “That’s someone from the Academy.”

“Are you coming?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” she murmurs, her gaze still fixed on the two women. 

True to her word, she finds you seated off to the side on the Guild steps just a few minutes later. You’ve tucked yourself away as much as you can. She sits down next to you and turns her face up to the sun. The warm rays gild her brown skin. “I’ll poke around to make sure no one else is getting fined,” she says. “That was a pretty sizable chunk for them to try and take.”

You lean back on your hands, the marble steps cool against your palms. “It was more than sizable.”

She hums. “True.” She pushes to her feet with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

By the time the two of you have slid into her car, you know you’ve pieced together as much as what you’ve gleaned from the Authority’s desk as you can. You wait until she shuts her door and starts the car up. She shifts into gear with a purr of the engine.

“I think there’s blight in Nevras.”

Ven pauses. She puts the car back into park.

“There was a letter on Rickon’s desk,” you say, staring out the windshield to the small patissiere across the street. The sidewalk tables are practically overflowing with people. One of the women laughs, her hair cascading over her back in a shining river. “I couldn’t see all of it, but it said something about blight.”

“Specifically in Nevras?”

“No,” you say. “But Light Kingdom focuses on grass for their livestock in the sections of the country where things actually manage to grow. And even if they contained it, I don’t imagine they could keep it hidden if it were here.” 

She taps her fingers against the steering wheel. “Probably not. You’re all pretty intertwined.”

You nod. “But the farms in Nevras are more remote, less likely to talk to each other before the Guild gets there.”

“It would certainly help explain Paloma’s particular aggression this drop,” Ven says, biting her lip. “Did you get anything else from the letter, anything I can use?”

“It was mostly covered.”

She sighs. “And Rickon will hardly be a source for me now. I suppose I was due to visit the night market anyway,” she muses. “I’ve heard there’s a merchant travelling in sometime soon that might be able to give me something. And Hava owes me a favor.” She drums her fingers against the steering wheel with a peculiar beat.

“What?”

“If this gets out, the Guild will use it to help justify the higher manifest numbers.”

You press your temple against the window. It’s cool against you, a welcome relief from the quickly building temperature in the car. You roll the sleeves of your shirt to your forearms and pull your collar open a bit more, feeling the heat rising off of your skin. 

“I don’t think they care much about justification,” you say. 

“They don’t, but that doesn’t mean we want them to have anything that truly could be one.”

Your head pulses again. It’s a lightning bolt of pain that strikes deep behind your left eye. You wince, eyes fluttering shut. When you open them again, the patisserie has gone blurry at the edges, like a watercolor. It takes a series of rapid blinks for it to dissipate. 

“I know,” you say. “We should go.” 

Ven says nothing, but you can feel her eyes on your form. You grit your teeth against a small aftershock of pain that rolls through you. She sighs and starts the car.

Silence falls, but it’s comfortable. You watch as Hilena rolls by. The city is more awake now, merchants trundling by with their carts on their way to market as people pull open their shutters to let the sea breeze in. The gulls are calling as they circle high above the red roofs. Here and there, they dive down towards the food carts that line the cramped sidewalks, the vendors’ voices boisterous as they hawk their wares. 

Mayra waves lazily as you pull up. She’s stripping herbs with Pi on one of the cushioned benches just outside the inn, just below the open bay windows that line the front of the inn. They’re both running pinched fingers down the woody stems before dropping the leaves into the mixing bowl tucked between the two of them. You can see Lu Ren at the back of the common room through the open windows. He glances up from sweeping and smiles at you, tilting his head, and you give him a tiny wave. He starts to put the broom away, and you plop down next to Mayra. Ven is already deep in conversation with Pi, the two of them huddled together on the other end of the bench.

“So?” Mayra asks. She smiles at you - the mid-spring sun has already started to darken the sprays of freckles clustered on her tawny cheeks - and immediately shoves several stems of thyme into your hand. “Be useful while you talk.”

“Wow,” you say, but you start to strip them anyway. 

“So?” she repeats.

“Can you wait five seconds for Lu Ren?”

She grumbles something under her breath. She switches to picking the small oval leaves of thyme off of the stem individually, a sure sign of her impatience, but you ignore it. You focus on your own batch until you hear the doors to the inn swing open. 

Lu Ren settles down next to you. He reaches over you with one long, lean arm - with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, it’s easy to see the play of muscles under his olive skin - and takes a handful of thyme. You pull the mixing bowl from its place nestled against Mayra’s bony hip and settle it into your lap.

He finds his rhythm quickly, stripping the herb with soft, easy movements, and Mayra nudges you. They’re both solid against you. The thyme leaves flutter into the bowl from all sides, their hands brushing up against yours in a soothing cadence. 

Mayra nudges you again.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

They listen quietly as you run through the summons. Mayra laughs outright at Ven’s derisive treatment of Rickon, but her smile fades quickly. Lu Ren’s hands slow as he listens. They both know what this could lead to. 

“Fuck,” Mayra breathes when you’re done. “The compost pile reclaim? Really? They actually tried that?”

“Yeah,” you say. 

Lu Ren frowns, shaking his head. “They had to know it would backfire. I don’t remember a time when there wasn’t a reclaim.”

“Ah,” Ven says, leaning over. “I think they did know.”

“So the point was?”

Ven raises an elegant shoulder. “Rickon moved too early and too fast. I’m sure they felt the need to remind him that the power he was flexing came with many conditions. And, of course, even if it did backfire, what do they really lose?”

“Let’s get back to the fact that they really are going to raise the numbers again,” Mayra says. She scrubs a hand across her face. A few thyme leaves end up stuck to her cheek. It’s oddly endearing, and you decide not to tell her. “It sounds like he’s committed to that catastrophe in the making.”

“Jumana must have pushed back hard against the numbers for this drop. She knows what they would mean for us,” Lu Ren says. “She’s questioned the Guild before, but for them to replace her with someone like that?”

“She yielded to the Guild often,” Ven says, “but she would have balked at numbers that are clearly meant to induce failure. My guess is she refused entirely.” 

Mayra raises a brow. “Rare that you guess.”

“I’m meeting with her when I’m back in town next week,” Ven says.

“Funeral Banks?” you ask.

“I’m overdue for a visit.”

“Is Shu going?”

“Of course I am,” a new voice says, low in your ear. You yelp, coming up slightly from your seat, and drop the mixing bowl. Shu catches it, moving faster than you can track, and sets it to the side. Lu Ren steadies you with a firm hand as you slump back against the bench. Mayra’s too busy laughing to help.

“Shakshuka!” you hiss. You tilt your head back to look up at her. Her full lips are curved into a delighted little smile. “Fuck, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, darling.”

“You aren’t,” you grumble. 

Her smile grows wider, her cheeks dimpling. She leans down and presses a kiss against your cheek. Your head throbs, but it’s a dull ache, barely discernible from the buzzing your headache had faded into as you’d left the Guild headquarters behind. She disappears from sight. You turn just enough to press your face into Lu Ren’s shoulder. He vibrates with a low laugh, the sound of it buzzing through you. 

“Shut up,” you say into his shirt. “I fucking hate it when she does that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, patting your back. You hear the door to the inn open with a soft creak of the hinges and pull away from him.

“Oh, don’t make that face,” Shakshuka says. “You’ve survived worse.” She pauses to anoint Ven’s lips with a kiss, her hair - long, lustrous waves of deep crimson, with a single thick streak of white just visible underneath her left ear - cascading down around Ven’s face.

“Hi,” Ven murmurs, tilting her face up towards Shakshuka like a flower to the sun. “I’ve been waiting.”

Shakshuka shrugs, the loose collar of her caftan gaping open so that the garment slips down one shoulder. The intricate metal work spanning her chest and shoulders catches the light. “I was napping.”

“Of course you were.”

Shakshuka hums and curls up next to Ven on the bench. One of her hands drapes over Ven’s knee, her thumb rubbing lazy circles. “It’s early.” 

Pi stands with a sigh. “I’ve got to keep going,” she says. She leans over Mayra to pick up the mixing bowl, popping it into the curve of her hip, one arm draped over it to keep it in place. “Come say goodbye.”

You hum an agreement. There are still a few thyme leaves stuck to your fingers; you let them flutter to the ground as Pi heads inside. 

The others fade into a conversation about the summons. You lean back and close your eyes. Lu Ren squeezes your thigh as Mayra’s fingertips brush against the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. The touches are soft but grounding, a solid foundation to keep you steady. 

You listen half-heartedly as the four of them outline potential ways to boost produce output for the summer’s start drop. It’s a delicate balancing act, finding solutions that won’t cause damage down the line. The sea breeze plays over you lightly, sending fine hairs wisping across your forehead. 

The increase in pain is so subtle you almost don’t notice it. It’s like little waves lapping at you with soft, grasping fingers. 

Then the breaker crashes over you, a wave so strong it almost pulls you under, the sharp ache digging in at your temples. Your fingers spasm slightly, your breath catching in your chest. 

You open your eyes. 

Shakshuka shifts, the languid spill of her body fading away into unusual alertness. She pushes up enough to peer down the street. Her eyes - the warm rich yellow of fresh butter - glitter. 

“Ven,” you say slowly, your eyes catching on Silas’s distinct silvery locks as he comes down the street, flanked by Peking and Alyona, “why is Silas here?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t Alyona take him back to the caravan?” you hiss. “He should have gone back with the others.”

“I wanted him here,” she says. “Your boy’s an Ironwrought. I want him close to you, and I want the Guild seeing him close to you.”

“The fuck do you mean, he’s an Ironwrought?” Maya grates. She pulls on the end of her unraveling braid and begins to redo it with quick, nimble fingers, tugging more harshly than needed.

“I mean what I said,” Ven says. “Now shut up.” She crosses her legs and spreads her arms wide over the back of the bench. Shakshuka sits up straight, a tight smile playing across her lips.

Mayra starts to argue, but cuts herself off as Silas wanders up. He’s practically glowing. His smile is broad and beaming. When you catch Alyona’s eye, she offers you a smile, but it’s thin and strained. The flowers in her hair are drooping slightly. Peking is exhaling a mouthful of smoke, his eyes crinkling at the edges from his smile. His eyes find Shakshuka immediately. The corners of his lips lift even more, but there’s something sharp-edged to him now. Your head pulses.

Silas is halfway through an enthusiastic greeting when he catches sight of Ven. His eyes drop down to her pendant - the dim glow the crystal emits has grown stronger now, the bluish color of it catching on the platinum setting it’s inlaid in - and his fingers twitch. It’s a distinctive piece, you know, the only piece of jewelry Ven ever wears aside from the plain iron band snug around her bicep, and from Silas’s reaction, he recognizes it.

“You must be Ven,” he says, and there’s a strange uncertainty to him now.

“I am,” she murmurs. Her smile is warm but closed off at the edges. “It’s Silk, isn’t it?”

He winces. “Ah, you can call me Silas.”

“Silas, then.”

“This is my Food Soul, Peking Duck.”

“A pleasure,” Ven says, tilting her head to Peking. 

Peking hums a pleasantry back. His eyes haven’t left Shakshuka. Silas follows his Soul’s gaze and blinks. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know you were a Master Attendant.”

“I’m not,” Ven says. Her smile is melting into something a little more genuine. Silas shifts, practically vibrating with wide-eyed curiosity, but Ven doesn’t elaborate. 

“Shakshuka,” the Food Soul says. She holds out a hand, her gaze finally shifting away from Peking. There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Silas shakes it eagerly. “Your jewelry,” he says, his eyes flickering across the exposed metal spanning her shoulders and chest. Mayra scoffs quietly. You pinch her. A soft pink flush spreads across his chest and neck as Shakshuka raises a graceful brow. “It’s beautiful. Iron is an unusual choice.”

“I find it suits me,” she says. “Thank you.”

“I have to go,” Alyona cuts in. She’s already unpinning her braids - they fall heavily against her broad shoulders, a few of the cyan flowers fluttering to the ground - from their crown. Lu Ren huffs a laugh at the sight. She glares at him. “Anything you want me to tell Asha?”

Ven shakes her head. Alyona transfers her pale blue gaze to you, but you shake your head as well. You do have questions for Asha, but you’re not about to say them in front of Silas. 

“Safe travels,” Alyona says. 

“Alyona, thank you for taking me to Manon’s,” Silas says. “It was incredibly informative.”

She softens, just slightly, and tips him a nod. “You’re welcome.” You again make a note to yourself to get her something the next time you’re in Parisel. She bids abrupt goodbyes to each of you - you’ll see her soon enough, at the summer’s start drop - and starts to head down the street.

“We should get going,” Lu Ren says. “It’s a long drive.”

Mayra heaves to her feet. “I’m driving!”

“Absolutely not,” Lu Ren says.

“I already took your keys.”

“I took them back,” Shakshuka says with a grin. She tosses Lu Ren his keys. He bats Mayra’s hand away to catch them one-handed, a broad grin lighting up his ruggedly handsome face.

“Thanks, Shu.”

She drops him a wink, rolls to her feet, and stretches. 

Ven follows suit and hooks her pinky around Shakshuka’s pinky without looking. “We’ll meet you at the offering statue.”

“Okay,” you say, well used to Ven’s mercurial shifts in plans. It’s not hard for her to pick up and leave on short notice and despite the difficulties, she always wants to go back to Funeral Banks. There’s a shift in her, sometimes, when Funeral Banks comes up, as if the city opens up the ground beneath her and swallows her whole. 

The two of them give quick goodbyes - there’s a quick flare of pain that strums through you as Shakshuka and Peking catch eyes again - and stroll off down the street.

It doesn’t take long for all of you to gather your things. Silas chatters at you about his time at Manon’s as you pack away the few things Mayra hadn’t gathered for you. Again, you find yourself struck by his open enthusiasm. You’re not sure you’ll ever know what to make of him. _Dumb and pretty_ , Mayra had whispered to you last night as Silas had blundered in a conversation with a stern port worker. _My favorite type of noble_.

It doesn’t take long to load up the truck, either. Mayra loses a very intense round of rock, paper, scissors - played in complete silence while huddled at the end of the bar, so quick that you barely have time to register you’ve won before you have to break apart as Silas comes in - and has to leap into the truck bed with Silas and Peking. 

Pi comes to the door to say goodbye, dusting her small, strong hands on her apron. They leave thick streaks of flour across her front. “Don’t do anything dumb,” she says crisply. 

“Thanks, Pi.”

She softens. “Take care,” she says, her voice gentle. “I mean it.”

“You too.”

She waves you off with one hand as someone calls out to her from inside. You climb up into the passenger seat, ignoring Mayra tugging at your shirt collar through the truck slider. Lu Ren sends you a small, soft smile and starts the truck. It rumbles to life underneath you.

“Ready to go home?” Lu Ren asks. The sun streaming in from the windshield catches him just right, highlighting his deep dimples as he smiles once more.

“Yeah,” you murmur, weariness sweeping through you. “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> womp i meant to have this up earlier but life uhhh...finds a way...to fuck up my plans
> 
> thanks to George RR Martin for the name Rickon, it's a good one
> 
> some fun facts about Ven:
> 
> -her business card is a Venn diagram where the circles don't touch: one circle says "things that are funny" and the other is "your jokes about my name"  
> -my theme song for her is Peaches' [Boys Wanna Be Her](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qcKMg7eEjj8)  
> -her necklace is a f l e x and she thinks it's hysterical
> 
> Shakshuka's stats are something I'll probably release down the line and probably her backstory as well! it's one of my fav dishes haha.


	9. these unexpected detours

The offering statue has long been abandoned.

You have never questioned her presence here, not even when you first stumbled over her with Ven and Mayra, the three of you racing down to the beach from the road, laughter tumbling behind you. Mayra thinks the ocean spat her out after a shipwreck, gave her back to the land she belonged to, let her have solid ground beneath her again. 

There are those who leave her small offerings still, you think, but infrequently. Even from a distance, you can see that the sand has swallowed much of her, the ocean’s greedy fingers dragging at her. Bayhops wind thick around her, the lush greenery of them bright against the dull grey stone, one of the pink blossoms unfolding in a coil around her neck. You think there might be a bird’s nest tucked behind the sheaf of grain cradled in her arms. You squint, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the sun, but you’re just far enough that you can’t quite tell.

Beyond her, Hilena gleams bone white in the late morning sun, the rippling ocean swells lapping against the arched pillars that lift the city over the sea. 

“We could rescue her, you know,” Mayra says, draping herself over your back and hooking her arms together over your chest. “Shu could pull her out.”

You wrap a hand around her wrist and squeeze softly. “No.”

The offering statue is meant for farmers, you know, but she is not meant for you. Her intricately carved crown of vines bear the distinctive star-shaped flowers of the duneflower tomato. It used carpet the fields of Cliffshore, verdant vines weighted down with abundant fruit, the skin glinting butterscotch yellow in the summer sun. It had long been a herald of true summer, a common delight used in restaurants and markets alike, but those days are gone. It’s been years since you’ve seen a duneflower tomato in anything but a high end market. 

There had been a similar offering statue tucked into a small niche in Leander’s farmhouse. His hands had been grainy with Cliffshore’s sandy soil when he had cupped your cheeks and pressed his forehead against yours, whispering his thanks for your help with that painful harvest. You remember the stillness of Leander’s expression as he gazed out over the picked clean expanse of his family’s fields for the final time - his young face streaked with the remains of salt tears, so reminiscent of the ocean at the edge of Cliffshore - every time you see a duneflower tomato.

You think that expression, agony compressed down until it was stone, may become a familiar sight once more.

Mayra - who had also traveled to Cliffshore often that year, her very being vibrating with the same tamped down outrage that echoed through you - hums her understanding. She presses her cheek against your jaw. You slump into her, just slightly.

The ocean laps at the shore. Your skull is buzzing, but it’s softer now, the fresh sea air working wonders away from the clamor of the city. Not far out from shore, there are two women perched in a boat, balancing themselves easily with their thick, strong thighs as they lean out over the gunwale to pierce the water with the hooked poles, pulling up matted clumps of seaweed. You and Mayra watch as they make their way down the coast. 

“We should try that one day,” Mayra says.

“You’d push me in.”

“I really would.”

You pinch her side and she just laughs, the sound of it rumbling through you. Still, she stays draped over you, and the two of you quietly watch the women for a moment more.

“Should we save him?” Mayra asks.

You glance back towards the road. There’s a smattering of market stalls just off the edge of the road, the fabric of them fluttering in the sea breeze as the vendors entice travellers to them. It’s much calmer than the racuous market that lines the bridge into Hilena, stalls squeezed in tightly between the flow of people in and out of the city. Your gaze settles on one of the seedling stalls.

You’d abandoned Lu Ren there early on, escaping to the seawall before Silas could reel you in with questions. Lu Ren had not been quick enough. The grimace that had twisted across his lips had melted into his patient kindness almost immediately, but it had been there. 

They’re both with the seedling vendor, a pretty woman with a thick waist and hair the color of the pearly dawn, the soft pink strands coiled into a dense plaited bun. She watches Silas and his gesticulating hands with a raised brow and a bemused tilt of her lips, just hidden enough that she runs no risk of losing him as a customer. Lu Ren is busying himself examining a small plant, his large, rough hands gentle as he slides his fingers against a tender green leaf, testing the waxiness of it. You eye the stiff set of his shoulders.

“Probably,” you sigh. “Ven should be here soon anyway.”

Lu Ren looks up just as the two of you start to amble back towards the stall. Mayra snickers under her breath as his shoulders loosen at the sight of you approaching. The vendor sends you a lazy smile as she leans against the tent pole, her focus wavering away from Silas for a moment. 

She has a voice like the rolling sea, a distinct Palatan curl softening the edge of her words. Peking - perched elegantly on a low wall nearby, one long leg crossed delicately over the other - glances up at her greeting. The expression that flashes over his handsome face is fleeting and almost impossible to decipher, but his scrutiny has clearly settled on your conversation. You focus on the vendor in an attempt to ignore his keen attention. It’s easier than you thought; she has a smile like a mirage and a silver tongue to match. 

You return to the truck with Lu Ren after a few minutes, bidding the vendor a soft farewell. Silas lingers, his attention caught on one of the odd little hybrids prominently displayed. Mayra stays with him. As you walk away, you can hear her laughing - the lilt of the sound seesawing wildly between amused and irritated - as he butchers the name of one of the parent plants, a small vining thing from her native land. Peking watches them, his lips slightly pursed, but he pushes off the wall and falls into step beside you as you pass. You almost walk into Lu Ren.

“That was quite an old term she greeted you with,” Peking says. “A particularly reverent one, too.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. She had caught you by surprise with the old title for certain farmers, one that was steeped in gratitude for the heavy dedication required by farmwork. “It’s not that uncommon,” you blurt. You bite down on your tongue as soon as the words leave your lips, cursing yourself. 

Peking chuckles, but his eyes are heavy on your form. “It’s been the better part of several decades since I’ve heard it. Do you hear it often, then, if you find it common?”

 _Don’t_ , Ban had said - the word sharp like a harvest knife, cutting into your tender flesh - the first time you addressed him as those in the market did. _Don’t_ , he’d said once more, softer, but with weary eyes. You never said it to him again. You wouldn’t understand until much, much later.

In some parts of the market, Ban had almost exclusively been greeted in such a manner. The melodic, hushed sound of it had grown comforting as you traipsed through the stalls with him, his fine boned hand warm on your wrist as he tugged you here and there, ducking behind stalls and weaving his way through the crowds, all with a basket of produce on his hip. He’d always smiled when greeted so devotedly, his deep brown eyes crinkling at the edges, but always shifting to scan those passing by.

The first time a vendor greeted you with that familiar title, you found yourself glancing over your shoulder, expecting to find hickory eyes, and finding only the anonymous bustle of the market’s crowds.

“Anyone from the Cradle is bound to hear it at some point,” Lu Ren says after a moment. You press against him in quiet thanks. “Palatans tend towards it more as well.” 

“To be expected, I suppose, with their limited resources.” Peking’s eyes gleam beneath his monocle. “How fascinating to hear it once more.”

You wince. For a moment, you think he will say more - the half-smile on his lips seems oddly predatory - but he turns his head towards the road instead.

The familiar rumble of the engine of Ven’s Jeep reaches you seconds later. She pulls off the road with a squeal of the tires, the Jeep rocking in place as she parks next to the truck. Your head pulses. Shakshuka is half-sprawled in the passenger seat, one long leg draped over the car door through the open window, but her eyes - she and Peking have connected gazes again, you notice - have lost the drowsy tilt from earlier. 

“Let’s go,” Ven calls sharply. She’s drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. Shu leans over and feathers a hand down Ven’s arm; the pattern of the drumming slows until it comes to a stop.

You and Lu Ren trade glances, but he unlocks the truck without comment. Peking steps aside to let you pass. His gaze has returned to the market stalls, where Mayra and Silas linger still. Mayra raises a hand to acknowledge Ven’s call before she nudges Silas away from the vendor. 

You round the back of the truck to head towards the passenger seat. Ven clears her throat; the sound is easy to hear since she’s got the top off of the Jeep, the skeletal frame of the car exposing her and Shakshuka to the warm, late morning sun. When you glance back at her, she nods to the truck bed. Shu rolls her eyes but the look on her face means she’ll give you no assistance here.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter, but you slam the tailgate down with a squeal of the hinges and climb in. You settle in the berth closest to the cab.

“Soft,” Lu Ren says through the slider, his smile a salve against the sting of the gentle tease. But there’s something melancholy in his voice. He knows better than most what you will sacrifice for the farm.

“Only sometimes.”

Mayra vaults into the truck bed. She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question your presence, just settles next to you. “Ven’s cranky,” she says as Peking and Silas climb up as well. She reaches over and slams the tailgate up into place as the two men sink into the berths across from you. You tap on the cab out of habit. The truck rumbles to life beneath you. Across from you, Silas is reeling off a long list of plant names from both the seedling stall and from Mayra’s homeland - his pronunciation almost passable now, though Mayra winces as he lists her favorite wildflower with a jagged twang - as Peking listens with a small, unreadable smile. 

“I noticed,” you grumble.

“Paloma or the Guild?”

“Could be either, but it’s probably both.” You glance back as the Jeep’s engine roars to life. Shu has a hand on Ven’s thigh, her fingers kneading against the flesh. Ven sags slightly, her whole form easing as the tension melts out of her. She twists towards Shu and smiles - it’s like an unfolding flower, gossamer petals gently fanning out under the sun’s nourishing touch - and runs a thumb across Shu’s cheek.

You turn away from the moment just as Mayra corrects Silas on a particularly egregious attempt at a medicinal herb’s name. She’s got her eyes closed as she cushions her head against the side of the truck, tilting just enough that some of her hair cascades over the side, her long neck gleaming in the sunlight, and you can’t tell if it’s that or her brusque correction that silences Silas. 

Lu Ren pulls out onto the road, the truck rocking as it climbs over the lipped edge of the bank, wheels spinning slightly until they find traction on the packed down dirt of the main road. The pink-haired seedling vendor waves as the trunk trundles away, that same mirage of a smile on her face. 

You and Mayra settle into a conversation about feed supplies. From the tilt of his head, Lu Ren is listening through the slider, and he pipes up here and there, always turning slightly to be better heard over the wind. As usual, Silas is chirping up with curious questions - some of them so clumsily phrased that even Lu Ren tenses - but Peking seems to have a better measure of the mood of the truck, carefully steering his Master Attendant into safer topics with an easy grace. 

The Jeep pulls up next to you once the road widens enough for it. Shu’s pinned her hair up to keep the wind from plucking at it; she cushions her chin on her arms as she shouts something to Mayra that you can’t quite catch over your discussion with Lu Ren. Your cheek is pressed against the cool glass of the slider. It’s a balm against your heated skin. 

The conversations are like skipping stones, breaking apart as other trucks pass - almost all shout greetings as they draw near - before connecting again. There are only a few occupants in each truck, likely those that stayed behind to sell the last handfuls of produce at the early market. Some of the trucks with more familiar occupants fall into pace with you. Those conversations are loud, shouted over the wind whistling between the trucks. You bask in the glow of them, the hearty laughter common even with the airship drop still stinging, as it likely will for weeks to come. 

When Tamir pulls up, he starts needling Ven immediately, much to Shu’s delight and the horror of a few of the smaller farm trucks lingering nearby. Ven gives as good as she gets - her stinging retorts flow from her lips lazily, like she can barely be bothered - until Tamir finally cracks her facade by startling a laugh out of her. Silas watches their fervent exchange raptly, and you wonder what it must be like to see Ven like this if you have only ever known her by reputation. 

The journey is a long one, made longer by the fact that you’d just completed it yesterday. But the gentle sway of the truck is familiar and soothing. You relax into the simple lull of it as Gloriville’s countryside rolls by, the spring wildflowers starting to appear in vivid pops of color alongside the road.

You’re half in Mayra’s lap, idly pointing out wild herbs to Silas to help distract him from the conversation taking place in one of the nearby trucks, when Ven abruptly peels off onto a side road with a screech of tires. You can hear Shu laughing.

“Fucking hell,” Lu Ren spits, before yanking the wheel hard to follow her. Mayra wraps her arms around you to keep you steady as the truck jerks with the sharp pivot; across the way, Peking has done the same, bracing Silas with a single arm hooked around his waist.

Mayra leans out of the side of the truck to peer down the road. “Guess we’re going on a field trip, then,” she says cheerfully. She pushes you off her lap and pulls the slider open even wider to stick her head through. “You good?”

“Hate it when she does that,” Lu Ren mutters. 

Mayra pats him on the shoulder and settles back down into her berth. You lean against the side of the cab, the sun-warmed metal a soft heat against your cheek, huffing a quiet laugh. 

Peking shifts in his berth. There’s smoke rolling from his lips in elegant curls, wreathing his fine features. It hazes his golden eyes until they look like the setting sun in a fogged sky. “You don’t seem surprised by this detour,” he says.

You shrug and Mayra snorts. “Ven is Ven,” Mayra says. “Her path is always shifting.” She doesn’t bother to elaborate, even when Peking raises an eyebrow, and you train your gaze on the blurring canopy of leaves as the truck gains speed. There’s little point in trying to explain. Funeral Banks still has Ven half in its mouth, even after all of these years.

The side road is a thicket of twists and turns, a sinuous dirt river, but it is just wide enough for the vehicles to drive abreast. Lu Ren pulls up next to the Jeep with a grumble. Ven flashes him a sharp grin before returning her gaze to the road. Lu Ren clicks on the radio, flipping through the static until he finds a familiar song. The tune rolls over you - out of the corner of your eye, you can see Mayra starting to move with the beat, stretching her arms over her head as she undulates - and you smile.

You round a sharp bend in the road, and the Uke Mochi is there.

She’s in the midst of a screaming caravan, the humans stumbling back from her towering form as fast as they can. The man in her grip wails - long, drawn-out, almost birdlike in the fluttering terror of it - as she bites down. Her yellowed teeth tear through his flesh like butter, opening deep gashes that pulse out blood, the white gleam of a rib poking through the mess of the man’s torso as she pulls back, dragging chunks of flesh to her mouth with her undulating tongue. His skin flutters in ribbons as she adjusts her grip, that gluttonous mouth descending once more. Something crunches, like the deep snap of an icicle underfoot, and the man’s torso shifts, the skin of his side distending rapidly as his ribcage surges against it. He goes limp.

The Uke Mochi tosses him aside carelessly; his ragdoll form smacks against a nearby tree, the trunk indenting slightly with the force of it. She leans down to the caravan once more, blood dripping from her mouth as a smile splits her lips wide. The Uke Mochi snaps almost playfully at a heavyset woman, her fangs gouging deep lacerations into the woman’s shoulder, butter yellow fat peeking through the gashes before the blood wells over it.

Mayra grabs hold of you as the truck slams to a halt. Her fingers dig into your flesh like spades, the tremble in them a gentle buzz against you.

The woman howls, stumbling to the ground and writhing in agony, and the Uke Mochi leans down again.

The Jeep’s engine grinds as Ven pulls the e-brake and yanks the wheel of the Jeep hard, sending it into a drift that almost flips the vehicle. You can see that the iron band on her bicep has melted and is swirling around her like a whirlpool, all nervous agitation.

Shakshuka is already leaning down, the car door kicked wide, and as the Jeep tips, she drags two of her fingers across the hard-packed dirt. You can see scraps of flesh fluttering in the wet trail her fingers leave, the dirt darkening to a muddied crimson. 

The agony feels like lightning, like your head is being pressed between a tightening vice, like you are a collapsing star, dying to be remade.

The iron metalwork that laces over Shakshuka’s shoulders and chest melts into something that looks like lava, thick, pulsing orange-red, as if the ground had split to retch up hellfire. It funnels off of her in a torrent, running down her arm and beading up over those two fingers. The iron spears through the hard-packed dirt and rumbles towards the caravan like a speeding train, the ground cracking and bubbling up in its wake. The ground around the Uke Mochi splits in a ragged circle, and then the iron is heaving up through the ground in thick sheets, forming shimmering walls between the Fallen and the woman, between the Fallen and the rest of the caravan.

Some people scurry forward and drag the woman away, leaving blood staining the dirt road in a meandering path.

The Uke Mochi roars, a sound like a maelstrom, echoing through the dense woods. She lunges forward, her claws screeching against the metal shields. Her tongue - it’s thick like a tree branch and dripping with red-tinged saliva - whips over the top of the iron walls. The appendage hurtles down towards the scattered caravan. The iron surges up like a wave, the top edge of it compacting down into a keen edge, and the Uke Mochi screams as the muscle is severed. The tongue lands next to one of the destroyed wagons and writhes, coiling and uncoiling as it lashes about.

“Peking,” Silas croaks behind you. 

“I’ve got it,” Shakshuka says, rising to her feet from where she’d rolled out of the Jeep. Her pointer finger and middle finger are worn down to the bone, abraded into ragged flaps of skin, the connecting tendons fraying like old cord, forcing the fingers to curl. Even as you watch, the eroded muscles start to knit back together again, slimy, stringy pink winding around the exposed, cracked bone of her middle finger.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

The pain arcs through you like a thunderbolt; your knees give. 

Shakshuka’s mouth is wrong, now, too wide at the edges, cutting too far up her cheeks. There’s something pushing against the flesh just beneath her eyes. It rolls just under the skin, and there are slits forming over the movement. Her face sharpens into something you can’t quite focus on, her features going misty at the edges, as if your eyes are skittering away as soon as they light upon her. The metal pulses just beneath her skin like veins of melted ore, glowing softly.

A hole opens in the iron cage that the Uke Mochi has been throwing herself against. It’s a direct path to Shakshuka. She flexes her fist - her destroyed fingers stay curled up, blood pulsing out of them at the movement - and waits.

With a scream that sends the trees whipping in the breeze it creates, the Uke Mochi hurtles forward.

Shakshuka’s fingers rupture. The iron splits her skin as if it were tissue paper, the sharp edges tearing through muscle and skin alike. Her nails patter to the ground like rainfall. The metal curves into wicked claws, the molten glow fading into the black of the night sky. At the bottom of each claw finger, her skin lies in tatters. There’s a sluggish trickle of blood inching down the back of her hand.

Shakshuka darts left as the Uke Mochi lunges. A tentacle lashes out at her. A disc of iron spins into a shield to deflect it without Shakshuka taking her eyes from her enemy. She leaps, pushing off another iron saucer mid-air to send her even higher.

Her claws spear through the Uke Mochi’s chin with a wet sound, the flesh shredding. The noise that spills from the Fallen sends a chill racing down your spine, a rumbling keen that is horrifically human. The Fallen spasms, a tentacle whipping up at Shakshuka, but it doesn’t quite make it.

Shakshuka twists her hand, the noise of flesh sundering wet and thick, even over the horrified sobs of the caravan, and the Uke Mochi goes stiff. Shakshuka twists again, and with a thunderous crack, the Fallen’s jaw rips off. Shakshuka sidesteps the gout of blood with graceful fluidity, and the Fallen gurgles as it collapses.

Shakshuka flicks her wrist to clean her claws of blood. The iron starts to melt again, flickering into that same orangey-red of molten heat, and it crawls back up her arm again. She flexes her hand as it heals as the iron retreats. The iron walls seep back into the ground, the vibrating gravel outlining its path back to Shakshuka. It creeps up her ankle when it reaches her, winding up her calf until it disappears under her caftan. 

“Mayra,” Ven says, sharp and low.

Mayra leaps over the edge of the truck bed, her fingertips sparking green, and heads for the gathering knot of people around the injured woman.

You watch as the iron from the ground meets with the iron of Shakshuka’s claws and winds itself into intricate vines against her shoulders and chest, a carpet of delicate iron flowers - honeysuckle, each petal divinely crafted - blooming over the massive, angry scar that scores her chest until it is no longer visible. The iron hardens into place.

You lean over the side of the truck bed and retch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello!
> 
> sorry for the delay, i'd hoped to get this chapter up before my trip but life had different plans and i didn't take my laptop with me. 
> 
> as you can see i updated a few of the tags and i'm debating updating the rating as i am actually truly horrible at parsing that kind of thing in written word versus visual medias bc i'm pretty desensitized unfortunately! hopefully the tags were enough warning for you if you needed warning.
> 
> Ven has a Jeep because I can't be bothered to try and figure out how to describe an open top vehicle but make it fantasy so i just went for a brand because who is gonna stop me
> 
> hopefully this chapter was worth the wait, i've been looking forward to a few of the things that are teased here and also for Shakshuka to show herself just a little more (even though it's only been one chapter since she was introduced lol) 
> 
> thank you all SO MUCH for 100+ kudos i'm genuinely so ?!? like really, i appreciate it so much and i'm glad you're enjoying this highly indulgent tale of mine! and your comments make my day!


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